Head Out To the Lake: Step 144

Wisconsin is probably best known for its cheese and the progenitors of that product the cows: Guernsey, Holstein and Brown Swiss. While its license plates proudly proclaim it America’s Dairyland, many people wonder if the state might have been better served by taking the title its neighbor asserts. Minnesota bumpers display plates with 10,000 Lakes emblazoned on them and their DNR counts 11,842 lakes of ten acres or more. The Wisconsin DNR reports, in this running dispute over which one has more, approximately 15,000 lakes, many smaller and unnamed but with a lot more water largely due to the greater depth of most Wisconsin lakes.

Having lived in both places I can assure anyone who wants to know they both have enough lakes for everyone desiring to fish, ski, sail, swim, or whatever. What they both forget to tell the tourist is the mosquitoes are large enough to be named the state bird in either place. When someone is young, equipped with a vehicle, and looking for something fun to do with friends, insects, even the size of birds, are not a deterrent.

Growing up in Milwaukee whenever anyone spoke of the lake they were talking about Lake Michigan. However, if they added the words up to or out to they were referring to one of the aforementioned smaller lakes. Among these inland or outlying lakes the one my friends and I were most likely to head out to (thus, outlying) was Friess Lake.

One of the great tests for my ’58 Rambler was how well it handled the rolling hills on Hubertus Road after we turned off of old highway 41 and headed to the lake. Unfortunately when they put the freeway in they didn’t take this into account, because now cars pass over Hubertus in favor of the much more level, despite its name, Holy Hill Road. Fortunately the pride of American Motors held together over every hurdle.

Although the car had no difficulty making it into the parking lot, sometimes getting a self-conscious teenage girl out of the dressing room required a skillful approach to shift her into gear. I’m not certain about the first time I went with Marcy out to the lake, but I know on at least one occasion I was grateful Randee was there. Compared to the bathing suits my daughters wear the suits most girls wore that summer were like full-length robes.

Naturally none of the boys gave a second thought about what they looked like in their suits, and they were out in the water as fast as they could change and go. Once the girls became acclimated to the water, which had a much more favorable temperature than Lake Michigan, the fun began. We would toss the Frisbee around, chasing and diving to catch it before it skimmed the surface of the water. After thirty minutes to an hour of catch there would usually be a good splash fight. Once in awhile a couple of girls would sit on guys shoulders and battle each other to see if they could knock the other couple into the water. The rest of the time was spent treading water just out beyond the drop-off point, or if the girls were feeling less self-conscious we might find ourselves lying on air mattresses floating on top of the water.

To me the best part was driving home after everyone had exhausted himself or herself having fun at the lake. Quiet would fill the back seat and Marcy would put her head on my shoulder as we drove for three quarters of an hour (only a half hour now on the freeway) back to town. Once we were through the town of Hubertus, except for the turn onto highway 41 I gained great satisfaction perfecting my one-armed driving skills.

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Unbridled Spirit of Adventure: Step 143

At first I thought my only connection to Marcy prior to our starting to date was Hector, but it turned out I had actually run into her a few times through cousin Natalie who was also a member of Kander BBG. For those who may not recall, BBG is the female portion of BBYO, which is like CYO or other religious youth groups, only Jewish. Actually, cousin Natalie may have had more to do with our getting together than I originally thought because she was one of those who enjoyed flirting with Hector, but then again cousin Natalie was extremely vivacious and enjoyed flirting with everyone.

Among the members of Kander, and aside from Doe, the closest friend Marcy had was Randee. As previously noted, Randee was a redhead. Not the bright orange redhead of Lucy, or the sultry red of Deborah Kerr, but rather something in between. It was thick, curly, bordering on frizz, and reflected her loud, cheerful, full of life personality.

We often drove the few blocks south and couple blocks east down the tree lined streets to visit with Randee and her family. Her mother had the same sort of effervescent personality with similarly curly, frizzy hair, except it appeared to have vanilla added so it came out to a sort of strawberry blonde, and it was always pulled into a fashionable shape. Her father had limited strands of a similar shade of hair and was a jovial man with a little bit of a paunch. Her younger brother had darker hair but more freckles. He would join Witt AZA in a year and become a close friend of my younger brother.

Now, Mr. F had some sort of regular nine to five job, but he was always a bit of an entrepreneur. That summer he had invested in a fairly large residential housing development. When construction ended for the week there was always a great deal of cleanup to be done. Instead of having expensive contractors do it a common practice was to find day laborers at the rescue mission.

However, Mr. F challenged a few of my friends and me to attempt the backbreaking work for five dollars an hour. That was more than three times what I was making at Wiro, but of course less than whatever he was paying the day laborers. Larry was quick to take up the challenge, and I was reeled in by the appeal of “big money.” One or two others joined us. Maybe M or cousin Jim, that part is not clear in my memory.

If anyone symbolized the exuberant unbridled spirit of adventure Twain gave to us in his depiction of Huckleberry Finn, it was Larry. Not only did he start a fire in the house with his chemistry set and become an amateur Hamm radio operator, long before the internet, he proudly displayed a decal of bullet holes in the lower corner of the windshield on the driver’s side of his late model Impala. By eighteen he would join the Navy and have a career as a sailor traveling around the world.

When we arrived at the construction site that Sunday there were heaps of scrap lumber and piles of broken drywall scattered everywhere among the circle of four family units, which had only been partially erected. We filled wheelbarrows full of wood and hauled it to the dump truck at the side of the road. Taking turns with the sledgehammer we busted up large pieces of drywall, coughing as the dust filled our lungs. Larry made a game of knocking a leg at a time off a daddy longlegs using the sledgehammer.

The best part of the day came when we drove the truck to the dump. Larry claimed to know how to drive it, and except for stripping a couple gears he managed to get it there the first time. It had two sets of gears with a lever to change from one set to the second. I managed to make it through all of them without so much as a single grind on the second trip. We all went home tired, filthy and extremely proud.

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The Setting for Our Romance: Step 142

As summer drew to a close Marcy and I spent more and more days together. Looking back it is amazing how quickly the pain of rejection subsided. As swiftly as the name Donna faded from my memory my ego became willing to endure a repeat performance given the possibility what now lay ahead was the real thing. Of course that meant it was fueled with the hope Marcy’s memory of her romance with Hector was similarly transfigured by her feelings for me. Amazing is the resilience of the young.

Even though I had little experience getting familiar with the households of the girls I had dated up until that time, since most of them were of the singular variety, I still recognized the setting for our romance involved unusual circumstances. First, as noted before, the adults in the home were a series of rotating social workers. Second, besides her actual biological sister, Sandy, there were six to eight other unrelated kids from ages nine to sixteen living in the house with her. Finally, some of the kids in the house had parents living in the community, which was a constant cause of confusion for me.

One of these kids was a thin black haired girl about the same age as Sandy whose parents attended our synagogue. Nothing in her appearance or demeanor seemed out of the ordinary, and her parents looked physically and socially capable of providing a nurturing environment. Yet, there she was.

Turned out the boy Marcy considered a social deviant, Terry, was actually related to me. He had the same surname as my maternal great-grandparents and a number of great uncles and aunts. Although he had a constant scowl and rarely socialized with the other kids, as far as I could tell there was nothing menacing or deviant about him.

Some of the younger kids shared bedrooms upstairs, but Marcy had her own bedroom on the main floor. Whether the door was open or closed the rules forbid any male from entering. The living room, dining room and kitchen were a jumble of continuous traffic with little opportunity for anyone to enjoy a moment of privacy. There was a back hallway where boots and coats went during winter months, but it had peeling paint and a bad smell that made it less than ideal despite the privacy it provided.

While there was little if any backyard there was a wonderful side yard with a large oak tree sprawling over the lawn near the rear. From the street the ladder leading up to the tree house was barely visible. Like everything else at the home it had rules, too.

During the school year completion of homework was required before entrance. No fighting, profanity or indecent behavior was permitted. No one was allowed in it after dark. Finally, any non-resident friends had to be pre-approved by one of the staff before climbing up into it. Otherwise, it was the perfect place to go to neck.

More often than not there was no one in there and Mrs. Earl or Horny gave us a quick nod and we were on our way. Marge was stern, but usually just warned us not to put on a show for the younger kids. Occasionally Sandy and one or two of her friends were up there, but often when we showed up they would leave and go to Sandy’s bedroom giggling and laughing like someone had just let them in on a big secret.

We had some wonderful times in that tree house, and it wasn’t always just kissing or exchanging gum. Sometimes we came up for air. Many dreams and aspirations were shared up there, and I have to wonder if any of them came true.

Did you have a special place to get away to with your high school sweetheart? Tell us about it in the comment section.

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Useless Mythological Stereotypes: Step 141

Growing up in a Jewish household I knew expectations ran high. Without any real discussion in our home my sister, my brother and I knew we were college bound. In an even more stereotypical sense we knew our parents wanted us to become doctors, lawyers, or at least scholars. Oy vay!

So, what were the expectations in the non-Jewish homes in our neighborhood? For the most part people in the area around Lancaster Avenue were church going Christians. Actually, from what I could tell most of them attended church every Sunday, and a few on other days of the week. Whereas the Jews who made it a point to show up for the High Holy Days, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, which come in the fall but are better equated to Christmas and Easter in the Christian world, rarely made it to the synagogue on Friday night or Saturday morning.

Unlike the Jewish homes, however, it appeared the other kids in the neighborhood had choices. Some definitely planned to attend college, but others even talked about “dropping out” before graduating high school. What amazed me even more was a few thought they would drop out so they could make some “good money.” Maybe my parents had done too good a job of brainwashing me or some of those dropout minded kids knew something I didn’t. After all, Bill Gates dropped out of college and look what happened to him.

As Marcy and I started dating our worlds began to expand, hers into mine and mine into hers. My parents and siblings always seemed supportive of our developing relationship, but I will delve into that in due course. Her sister, Sandy, who was a couple years younger quickly became my friend.

Since Marcy was growing up in a world without parents it was only natural for me to treat the social workers in the home as surrogates. On the other hand there were the adult role models in her life before her mother died whom I would come to know.

Her mother had a boyfriend for seven years who picked the girls up every other Sunday, but who I did not meet until several months into our relationship. So, I will add him into the mix later, too.

When Marcy first took me back to her former neighborhood I have to admit I was shocked. Her home was part of a row of houses in a housing development known as Parklawn (see photo). Each little square house opened up into a small living room with a kitchen off to one side and two small bedrooms in the back.

Marcy introduced me to Doe, her best friend, who happened not to be Jewish, sometime before we went to visit her in the old neighbor. Her siblings, I don’t remember how many or what gender but all a lot younger, were playing on the floor. Her mom was doing something in the kitchen while her dad got up off the couch to shake my hand.

Then, he went over and turned off the television. It had been playing a western starring John Wayne, his favorite actor. We sat down in chairs across from him and Mrs. C brought over a bowl of popcorn to pass around and joined him on the couch. They talked about Marcy as if she were their own daughter. Laughing and sharing stories of how Doe and Marcy would get into trouble when they played together their warmth was contagious, and I quickly grew to like Doe and her parents.

After we left Marcy explained how Mr. C had traveled to Madison for medical school and was now finishing his residency at a local hospital. She helped enlighten me and allowed me to shed some useless mythological stereotypes.

Do you recall enlightening moments? Share them in the comment section.

The Movie We Saw on Our First Date: Step 140

One of the most popular ways to get to know a girl when I was a teenager, which if I am not too far off base remains popular today, was to take her on a date to a movie. So, I asked Marcy to go with me to a movie.

How we selected the movie we saw on our first date escapes my memory, but here again the protagonist in the story remains a popular character in motion pictures being produced today. His name is James Bond, and the motion picture released that summer was titled, You Only Live Twice. In the years since several actors have assumed the role of Bond, but in my opinion none of them have captured the essence of the character created by Ian Fleming in the novels I had read in junior high as well as the one on the screen that night. Sean Connery knew how to ask for his martini stirred, never shaken, so as not to bruise the ice when he portrayed secret agent 007.

Having spoken to Marcy on the phone several times prior to that first date I was aware I was going to have to answer a number of questions before we would be able to leave for the movie, so I arrived early. Hector had shared with me the story of her mother dying shortly after they started dating. Although neither the details of her poor health that led to her death, nor anything about what happened to her father were revealed to me at that time I knew she lived with her sister at the Jewish Children’s Home.

Since I had taken her home that night we met in the Pizza Wagon parking lot, I knew it was an older two story house in a neighborhood not too far from where Aunt Jane lived, and not some official looking building like the YMCA or JCC. From our phone conversations I learned she and her sister lived with about eight other kids. She said she got along with everyone except a creepy boy named Terry, who she said was always trying to sneak peaks at her while she was dressing in her bedroom.

The home was supervised by several social workers that worked rotating shifts and brought varying skills and personalities to the tremendously difficult task of raising teenagers. To their credit while each of them had their own unique method of enforcing the established rules of the home from what I could tell all of them performed their duties in a loving and nurturing manner.

That night Marcy’s two favorites, Mrs. Earl and Horny, a nickname related to his last name Horness and nothing else, were on duty. As I recall they mainly wanted to know about how I got along with my parents and siblings, a little bit about my interests, and most importantly if I planned to bring Marcy back on time to avoid their wrath. Other than Mrs. Earl being maybe ten years older than my parents and Horny being maybe ten years younger, they acted just like real parents did when I had picked up other dates at their homes.

When the movie was over I remember Marcy saying she could never be a “Bond girl” because she wasn’t petite and her boobs were too big. I don’t remember my response, but I know I thought she had a wonderful body, but then I was thinking with the mind of a hormonally charged sixteen year old. I also figured she was just fourteen and would change her mind as she grew older and wiser.

We had pizza at the Wagon before heading to Menomonee River Parkway where our lips became locked together for the better part of an hour. She had me wait on the screened in porch while she ran in to let Mrs. Earl know she was back before her curfew. Then, she came out to the porch where we kissed for another twenty minutes.

Do you remember your first date with your high school sweetheart? Where did you go and what did you do? Share in the comment section.

She Was So Cute: Step 137

Looking back with an analytical eye there appears to be a correlation between having your heart broken and a surge in popularity. Prior to the Beau Dance I don’t recall girls calling me up and asking me for a date. With the crushing of my heart there was a sudden up tick in the volume of girls who considered me worthy of their attention.

Unlike Mimi and Peggy, Cha was someone I knew. When or where we may have first met would be difficult to determine. We definitely had seen each other around Marshall High and at various BBYO activities. There was a chance we had spoken to each other about something, but none of that mattered when I answered the phone and heard her voice.

Cha was cute. In fact, she was so cute M and I decided she deserved a special nickname. So, just like M is a nickname that has stuck for a long time, so is Cha. Now, when she started to tell me about a summer party her BBG chapter was having I prepared myself to be told about some wonderful girl she wanted to match up with me. An image of Mimi quickly flashed before my eyes. That’s when I realized she wanted me to go with her to the party. Already having assumed the worst I almost said no. Fortunately, my mind moved ahead of my tongue and I accepted her offer.

During the couple weeks between being asked and the date of the party I continued to hang out with M, the two Jeffs, cousin Jim, and other friends. We still went to the Pizza Wagon parking lot to hang out, and to see what girls were flirting with Hector since his break up with Marcy. No matter what time of night there were always girls adoring his Spanish accent and button popping pectorals. A few of the well-lubricated patrons who stopped after the bars closed had to pull their wives away from the oversized kid guarding the back door.

One time when Jim and I were talking to Hector he waved to a friend without thinking. It was Donna. She and Hector both went to Washington High. Dennis, whose arm was around her, used to go to Washington but had moved to the eastside. I still didn’t understand what she saw in him, and if she was fickle shouldn’t she have dropped him by then. It was all quite awkward.

A few days later on a night Hector had off I was standing in the parking lot when Norman spotted some people he knew. I didn’t know the redhead he introduced as Randee, but I had met Marcy on several occasions when she was with Hector. She never seemed tall next to him, but somehow she seemed statuesque standing in that parking lot, and when we started to talk there was more going on than just words.

We ended up taking them home and when she asked me what I was doing Saturday night I told her about my date with Cha. She just smiled and said to let her know how it goes.

Even though I was quite aware I was with the cutest girl at Pippi’s house, and quite possibly in a twenty-mile radius, as Cha and I stood on the basement stairs my mind was someplace else. Then, to make things even more bizarre Pippi started talking about how she had seen Marcy recently and she thought she was having a difficult time getting over her breakup with Hector. Cha asked me if I knew who Marcy was and I nodded.

Here I was with someone I had sincerely wanted to spend time getting to know and there was something pulling me in another direction. Somehow, it didn’t seem fair.

Did you ever go on a date you had been looking forward to and suddenly realize you wanted to be somewhere else? Tell us about it in the comment section.

Something Good To Say: Step 136

To be honest I do not remember whose party it was but I know it was one I wanted to attend and was upset when I wasn’t invited. Naturally I accepted a date so I could go even though there was any number of reasons I could have declined. First, she had the same first name as my sister, which made it weird. Second, she was a lot younger. All right girls mature faster than boys, but when you are sixteen a girl of fourteen seems like a child. Third, she had a twin. He was a nice guy, but it just made it even weirder. Finally, she had not matured in the area guys at sixteen look for first. All right so it’s shallow, but Donna was quite mature in that area and it impacted my expectations.

One thing I realized right away was even though she had a twin brother there was no mistaking her for a boy. She had jet-black hair and big brown eyes. She was slender without being skinny. She smiled demurely, but not in a shy way but more in a provocative manner. In fact, there was nothing shy about Peggy; she was friendly, engaging and an excellent conversationalist.

As far as I can remember we never discussed civil rights, the war, or anything of a controversial nature. Before we arrived at the party we were talking about people we knew. It was amazing the number of people we both knew, and she seemed to have something good to say about each one of them. It was surprising to me that with so many mutual friends we had not been introduced to each other.

She told me how she had seen me at a dance with one of our mutual friends but didn’t have the courage to introduce herself at the time. When we reached the party I realized I not only was glad to be at the party, but I was glad to be with Peggy, even if she did have my sister’s name and a twin brother.

Although most of the details of the evening are vague I remember talking with a lot of mutual friends, especially girls who were in her BBG chapter, like Gilda, Rosie, and Debby Sue. Despite having only finished her first year of high school Peggy held her own with the other girls. Whatever lack of confidence she felt the night she chose not to introduce herself to me it was completely gone.

When we ordered pizza at The Wagon later that evening she told me how she was looking forward to the Packer season and asked what I thought about the merger between the NFL and AFL football leagues. I think I had probably talked about sports with girls before, but usually because they wanted to join in a conversation I was having with some other guys. This was different. She actually seemed to be interested in the Packers and football.

Besides the subject the other thing I remember about our conversation was her hands. Her slender fingers seemed to not only weave the story together, but also somehow add a tantalizing element to it. Given all the reasons the evening should have been a complete disaster it was not.

Yet, somehow I knew as we kissed good night we would probably not go out together again. She never called, but then it really was my turn to ask her and that never happened. A couple decades later I worked with her twin brother on a building project at the Milwaukee Public Schools. I may have asked about her, but I’m not sure.

Do you remember the first good date after a breakup? What set it apart? Were you able to follow it up with another one? Tell us in the comment section.

A Whole New Meaning: Step 135

Growing up in a city known for breweries, motorcycles and Friday fish fries it was never surprising when piles of snow melted away and people sprayed insect repellent on their skin so they could barbeque in their backyards the mood of the whole city came alive with the excitement of summer. But not that summer. Tension was in the air.

For the past four or five years I had become a regular fan of the news. In our house it was Chet Huntley and David Brinkley on channel 4, the NBC affiliate. Besides the war in Vietnam the other topic filling their reports were stories of Negroes organizing marches in the South. As far as I was concerned what was going on in the South was just as far away as Vietnam.

No doubt I was quite naïve. My parents along with all their open-minded liberal friends insisted they had nothing against people with different skin colors, but felt it best to stick to our own kind. With Bill Cosby the only black face on television and Sidney Poitier more than four months away from “…Coming to Dinner,” the only role models of success I knew were Henry Aaron and the Braves who had deserted the city.

One day after our summer school class I went with Jeff P to his father’s store on North Avenue near Third Street in an area known as the inner city. One of the employees was a large friendly man with a big smile whose name I think was John. When I told him I lived on Lancaster Avenue he told me he had gone to an open house a few blocks away. John said the real estate agent walked away whenever he wanted to ask a question. He said his own real estate agent wouldn’t even take him to the neighborhood because it was a waste of time. Like I said I was naïve. Up until then I bought the myth that Negroes were either too lazy or chose to live in impoverished neighborhoods.

A few days after Huntley and Brinkley reported on confrontations between Negroes and police in Detroit, Dad came home with his boots, helmet and rubberized coat stuffed in the trunk of the car. As we watched the film of firefighters in Detroit putting out huge fires, Dad told Mom she shouldn’t worry because if anyone started firing at them he would be the first one under the fire engine. It was the first time I did worry for my father’s safety, but I also realized his view of what was happening was different than mine.

Although he had watched the same news reports with me that showed the peaceful march on Selma and the great oration in Washington by Reverend King, he regarded him as a rabble rouser who stirred up trouble wherever he went. His views of Father Groppi, the white priest who had grown up in an all white neighborhood on the south side of Milwaukee and led Negro protests from his parish, St. Boniface, in the inner city were even less flattering.

Shortly after Dad was called into work the announcement came from Mayor Maier that the city was under curfew and no one was to leave their house. When he lifted it a couple days later Jeff P and Hector came to my house to see if I could go with them to Jeff’s father’s store. Apparently there had been some damage and they were planning on helping clean up. I wasn’t allowed to go with them, but as they pulled away I heard Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions singing People Get Ready, and it had a whole new meaning for me.

Do you remember any civil rights demonstrations? Or, Do you remember the first time you saw things differently than your parents? Share with us in the comment section.

Back in the Game: Step 134

Shortly after I was elected president of Witt AZA one of the last orders of business Steve P had to preside over was the selection of the chapter sweetheart. In other chapters the completely democratic process known as who is dating the current or in-coming president, or failing that who has been dating one of our members for the past few months did this. In Witt since no one ever had more than three dates with the same girl this problem never entered the picture.

Now, in all honesty I have no idea whose name may have been offered in the selection process. If the selection took place while Donna and I were seeing each other I can be grateful she wasn’t selected. As it turned out we chose a rosy-cheeked blonde named Joy who through her vivacious smile, bubbling exuberance, and lack of a conceited bone her body endeared herself to our group of mostly self conscious sweaty palmed nervous nerds. All right, I’m not talking about Steve P, M, Brad, and a few others, but the rest of us were, making us all the more excited to have her as our sweetheart.

Another factor, which I am quite sure was merely coincidence, were Joy and Donna were in the same BBG chapter. Though I am not sure to what extent they shared a friendship this fact meant they saw each other at regular meetings and many social activities. It also meant Joy was likely to know quite soon after Beau Dance that Donna and I were no longer seeing each other.

One of the social activities their chapter organized every year was attending the fireworks on the lakefront. Since my days in elementary school one of my favorite holidays has always been the Fourth of July. In Milwaukee, dating back to the time when Schlitz Brewing Company was a major local employer and civic pride developer, there were cutting-edge fireworks the night of the third and a huge circus wagon parade the morning of the fourth. People marched folding chairs and blankets in hand for miles to get a spot on the hillsides or in the park to watch the sky fill with colors.

So, when I heard Joy’s excited voice on the phone I was hoping she was calling to invite me to see the fireworks. She was, only not with her. She wanted to know if I would go with someone named Mimi. Wow, a Jewish girl with a French name. The only French person who came to mind besides Charles de Gaulle was Brigitte Bardot.

All Joy would tell me was she thought Mimi was cute but a little shy. Compared to Joy most people I knew might appear shy. What mattered to me most was she was an attractive girl who Donna and her friends would see me with and know I had recovered and was back in the game.

My mother always told me beauty was in the eye of the beholder. She was right. Unfortunately for Mimi whatever beauty Joy was hoping I would see vanished when I picked up a quiet dark haired girl who reminded me more of de Gaulle than Bardot. After saying next to nothing in the car as we crawled through traffic, and even less as we walked to the park, I hoped against hope we would not see Donna.

Of course, despite the thousands of people who dotted the hillside there she was looking through his telescope at the grounds below holding the pyrotechnic display. Mimi suddenly came alive and started shouting out to her. I calmly said hello to Dennis.

We found a spot and laid out the blanket. As bright bursts of light whistled through the air I kept asking myself what she saw in him. He wasn’t as funny, intelligent, or good looking as me. Poor Mimi, she never stood a chance.

Did you ever have a blind date? How did it go? Tell us in the comment section.

Below the Surface: Step 133

Even though the length of my relationship with Donna was shorter in duration than the infatuations I had with Becky or Jan, the breakup had a significantly greater impact. This was probably due to the fact we had actually spent time together and grown to know each other over the six or eight weeks, whereas in the other two situations, though they may have lasted months or even a year, it was mostly at a distance with a smattering of face to face contact. Her absence left a void.

Fortunately, youth has certain advantages. Despite whacked out hormonal systems, teenagers have amazing resilience and regenerative powers. Not to diminish the pain and anguish I endured as the result of being rejected, but unlike Romeo I never felt suicidal. Of course Donna did not drink poison she merely discovered what many teenagers realize that her emotions were fickle.

Faced with the prospect of having to take another class that summer to attain senior status in the fall I decided to knuckle down and work hard to raise my GPA. Unlike the previous year the class I needed was offered at Marshall High. Another thing that was different was the majority of students in this class took SA, or superior ability, classes during the school year.

I am not sure how students were selected into the SA track. Many, if not all, had gone to Sixty-fifth Street School. However, if I learned nothing else during that summer it was the students I assumed truly were superior had no greater gifts than I did, at least not in English.

Four things stand out in my memory of the class, the story we read, its form, a student, and the teacher. In prior years we had read Elliot’s Silas Marner and Dickens’s Great Expectations, but neither of them prepared me for Golding’s Lord of the Flies.

In the story a group of British boys are left to fend for themselves after their plane crashes on a deserted island. Their exploits move from an attempt to form a civilized democratic society with rules and benevolent leadership to the liberation of an inner savage and animalistic hunting, torturing and killing. Having grown up to expect the best of people Golding’s narrative of an ugly depraved being lying just below the surface civilization provides was extremely disturbing.

Adding to the value of this story was the fact that it was not a segment of a large hardcover anthology. Each student in the class had his or her own paperback copy of the novel. No longer were we reading schoolbook text, we were reading an adult book.

Of course we were still in high school, and therefore my expectations were the same as any other class. Despite being told of the importance of regular attendance my friend Stu consistently showed up late when he showed up at all. I am not sure whether it had to do with his playing in a band or his disregard for rules. In either event, I knew he was not going to pass the class. Wrong. He aced the midterm, the final, and the course.

Finally, it may be as a result of having someone my own age reject me, but Mrs. Willoughby, who only taught at Marshall High during the summer, evoked a level of interest in me similar to young Michael in The Reader. Only in this case she could read. Actually, it was the way she read, sitting at the front of the room on a hard chair with her tanned legs crossed at the knees and her silver blonde hair illuminating her face as her sultry voice projected profound images of the characters in the book, that captured my fascination. Though I did manage to raise my grade point, in contrast to the fictional Michael, my attraction to the older woman remained pure fantasy.

Did you have high school fantasies? Tell us in the comment section.

In the Back Seat of the Boat: Step 130

At the beginning of the school year despite not having a girlfriend I found a date to the Sweetheart Dance. Although the night went all right either Rina sensed I wasn’t attracted to her, or even more likely she just wasn’t that attracted to me. In either case we remained distant friends holding occasional conversations in the hallways.

Beau Dance was the BBG version of the Sweetheart Dance. Each chapter selected a junior who would be a senior in the fall to be their beau. Since the two Jeffs, M and I were all classified first semester juniors none of us was selected as a beau despite our knowing we would actually be seniors in the fall. Steve P was a beau and would make the walk down the aisle and be introduced, but there is no way I can recall what chapter selected him.

Unlike the fall, though, I had been dating one person for a while, if one can call going to the movies a couple times, visiting the library, and cruising around providing T.P. decorating services dating. Even though this seemed to be the perfect opportunity to demonstrate female equality Donna seemed less than enthusiastic when she asked me to the dance. Perhaps she felt the bourgeois custom of wearing formal attire was oppressive.

A number of friends worked at one of the Sherkow Formal Wear stores. They were always glad to squeeze us in between the prom and wedding crowds. M considered doing something outlandish like renting tails and a top hat, but came down to earth when he saw the rental tags.

In a strange turn of events Rina, who had been my date to the Sweetheart Dance, asked Jeff M, who had been Donna’s date to that dance. We even discussed doubling, but while the girls might have been comfortable with that arrangement I think Jeff and I agreed it was a bit too bizarre. As it turned out M was asked by Mickie, who went to school with Donna at Washington High.

After we finished work at Wiro, M and I drove to pick up our tuxedoes. Then, we drove to the florist and picked up corsages. This time we both did it right. We made sure to ask for colors that coordinated with the girls’ dresses and wristbands so we didn’t have to worry about poking them with pins. M dropped me at home so I could get ready while he went home, changed clothes and switched cars.

A few hours later he came by in “the boat,” the term we used to describe his father’s Oldsmobile 98, which was also affectionately known as a land cruiser before Toyota screwed it up with an SUV with that moniker. Donna looked stunning in the dark blue satin dress that defied the pastel season. It was the only time I remember seeing her father and her mother who had greeted me before suddenly gave me the “so you’re Rita’s boy” look and snapped a couple pictures for posterity. While M went to get Mickie everything was warm and affectionate on the surface but I could sense something was not quite right.

Once again the War Memorial Center provided an outstanding venue overlooking Milwaukee’s finest feature, Lake Michigan. After the dance and pizza at Mama Mia’s where we naturally ran into Jeff M and Rina, we headed to the big empty parking lot behind Mayfair Shopping Mall. While M and Mickie made out in the front seat I started to feel quite amorous in the immense rear seat. Donna stopped me and cupped my face and told me she was too fickle and she wanted to end our relationship.

So, there it was I had received the Flying Fickle Finger of Fate award a full six months before Rowan and Martin started giving it out on Laugh In.

Did the fickle finger ever find you? Tell us about it in the comment section.

It May Not Be Enough: Step 129

“Young people speaking their minds, getting so much resistance from behind,” are lyrics written by Stephen Stills and recorded by Buffalo Springfield in a song aptly titled “For What It’s Worth.” We were definitely different than our parents’ generation who weathered the great depression and said not a word when asked to fight. A lot of us were seen “Singing songs and carrying signs,” as my shortened junior year of high school came to a close.

Besides running around in my Rambler decorating our friends yards, something I’m sure Donna left out of her campaign materials when she ran for mayor of Milwaukee nearly two decades later, we would often have long conversations about withdrawing from Vietnam, civil rights, and a topic about which she was extremely passionate and I had no clue, women’s liberation.

At the time I didn’t have a clear understanding of why people were protesting the war. My father, who insisted all he ever did was tap out radio signals in a B-24 liberator as it flew over Germany and dropped some bombs, disapproved of young people protesting but thought it was a good idea to get a student deferment to avoid the draft. In one of our discussions Donna pointed out it was the rich and middle class who received student deferments, leaving the poor and minorities to be drafted and fight the war.

She even pointed out how Martin Luther King Jr. and Father James Groppi, a local priest active in the civil rights movement, had drawn a parallel between the struggle of Negroes, as African Americans were referred to during the time, to receive equal rights in education, employment, and elections with the disproportionate number of young male Negroes drafted into service and killed in Vietnam. At the same time, she listened as I told her how one of Miss Steiger’s former students, a Negro officer in the army, came back to our Latin class to tell us about the war, but also how the military offered opportunities to minorities civilian society failed to provide.

Even more confusing to me was the idea that something a group known as hippies had started was somehow related to the liberation of women. She said the commune formed by these people in California was like the kibbutz in Israel with everyone sharing the work and the fruits of their labor. Of course where the whole sharing concept broke down for me was when it came to sexual relations.

As a life long subscriber to the double standard perpetuated by everything from multiple wives in biblical times to Bond girls in novels and film the myth that it was all right for a man to have sex with multiple partners but a woman who followed a similar pattern was a whore had been totally ingrained in my psyche. Worse still was the nagging notion the fair skinned bright-eyed beauty with a voracious appetite for sweat inducing embraces might actually think she would like multiple partners. Here I had finally moved beyond the single encounter or distant flirtation to an actual relationship with a girl, and she has the nerve to point out it may not be enough.

Certainly there were advantages in growing up during a time of great change, but there were also great challenges. We were after all only a few years removed from the Disney stories where the prince rescued the fairest in the land and they lived happily ever after. Imagining Sleeping Beauty telling the prince the kiss was fine but she’d rather hang with Dopey and the boys required a whole new set of glasses, and “For What It’s Worth,” they weren’t always rose colored.

Do you have a story about dealing with change? Please share it in the comment section.

A Typical Early June Day: Step 128

When we gathered at Elkhart Lake the news was already filled with reports of rising tensions between Israel and Egypt. At the time the president of Egypt, Gamal Nasser gave a speech to union members declaring that if the country were to go to war, “…our basic objective will be to destroy Israel.” It renewed in my parents and much of the Jewish community in Milwaukee memories of a speech Nasser had made before the United Nations some seven years earlier. In that speech he talked about taking back Palestine and, “…the annulment of Israel’s existence.”

As a kid I had always thought of Nasser as fitting the description my father often used, which was a guy “full of hot air.” When my vocabulary grew to include the term rhetoric his speeches served as an easy to understand illustration. However, as word of his throwing out UN peace keepers and blocking Israeli ships was reported, a surprise to me because my image of both Israel and Egypt was of waterless places blanketed by sand, I, too, worried about a possible war.

On a typical early June day long before Twitter, the internet or even CNN, when most discussions centered around the end of school and plans for the summer, rumors about an Israeli-Egyptian war spread through the halls of John Marshall Junior Senior High School. By the time I got home the news bulletins were constantly interrupting regular programming on television and Israel was fighting Jordan and Syria, as well as Egypt.

Such news only heightened my anxiety over what it would mean to be a Jew in a world where the place we had read in the torah was promised to Moses and his people was blown to smithereens. I had seen maps of little Israel stuck among the much larger Egypt, Syria, and other Arab countries. To me it was David and Goliath all over again.

Up until that time my only frame of reference for modern military battles had been World War II and Vietnam. The only planes I had seen in movies and news reports were German, Japanese, British and American. Yet, that night they showed a swarm of Israeli fighter planes taking out airfields inside Egypt. My image of middle-eastern soldiers doing battle on camelback was shattered.

Since we couldn’t get together during the week Donna and I would talk on the phone. She amazed me when she said her mother had talked to family in Israel. It was never clear if these were shared family members since we were fourth cousins, but that was of little consequence. In a time when few people made long distant phone calls it astounded me that her parents would spend the small fortune it had to cost to call Israel.

We went that Friday night, and met up with a number of friends, for Sabbath services at her synagogue, Temple Menorah. After Rabbi Lehr gave an eloquent sermon about coming together as a community to show the world we were united behind Israel, Donna decided to approach him after the service. He confirmed boys and girls as young as sixteen could join the Israeli army, and as a Jew she would receive citizenship and could enlist with her parents’ permission.

Before we reached my car I reminded her she was opposed to the war in Vietnam. She insisted there was a difference. She clearly articulated her belief that Vietnam was morally reprehensible tyranny and Israel was fighting for its right to survive.

Fortunately the Six Day War ended the next day and I no longer had to worry about my girlfriend leaving me to go and fight in the holy land.

Do you remember the Six Day War? How about memories of other wars? Tell us in the comment section.

As It Became Increasingly Clear: Step 127

Growing up we learn a lot about ourselves often long before we learn what names psychologist and sociologists give to whatever condition or phenomenon we have. Physical difficulties never presented a problem for it was easy to label illnesses like polio, measles, mumps, chicken pox, pneumonia, cold or flu. Although when the term influenza started appearing in discussions it took me a long time to realize it was just another way of saying flu, and not some new strain that made one ache but not vomit.

Outside of discovering labels for various behaviors I learned the geography where I was born and raised had a lot to do with the person I became. For example, one pair of labels social-psychologists favor in categorizing our ability to form relationships is introvert and extravert. Had I grown up in an urban center on the east coast any development of extraverted behavior would likely have been stunted, whereas had I grown up on the west coast development of introverted behavior would merely have blended in with the laid back cultural landscape. Being a Midwesterner allowed me to balance the two behaviors so well that today I never know what to put on self-assessment inventories.

As it became increasingly clear my athletic aptitude was marginal and any artistic ability lying beneath the surface lacked the courage, conviction and drive necessary to emerge, one attribute kept appearing before me each day I looked in the metaphoric mirror. Although gregarious might be the label social-psychs might attach, it smacks of certainty, swagger and yes, extravert. My personal analysis had me beyond sociable, but not so far removed that I could not relate to shy individuals. What I saw in myself was an ability to make and sustain friendships.

Being an educator I know the difficulty of moving from the concrete to the abstract. A hallmark of my early years was good guys in white hats, bad guys in black hats. Many friends relinquished their relationship with individuals they saw as wrong. Long before the concept of “let’s agree to disagree,” if an Elvis fan decided he wanted to listen to the Beatles he would need to find new friends with whom to eat lunch.

Now, I’m not saying I didn’t have favorites nor that I was afraid to share my opinions, but for the most part I saw friends as much more valuable than opinions or the need to tell them I was right. In a practical sense it is this attribute that allowed the majority of a group of thirty teenagers to elect me president of Witt AZA. Certainly, M was a popular guy, after all he was my best friend and in my opinion a much more skilled leader, but if the ability to build and maintain friendship and camaraderie are the currency of social groups my coffers were filled at a relatively early age.

My involvement in school organizations was limited to attending one meeting of the drama club, a short time on the football and wrestling teams, and being part of the Latin Club largely by virtue of taking Latin as a class. Whatever social, leadership, and most significantly organizational skills I developed during high school were largely due to my role as president of Witt AZA. Few, if any, of the thirty members of that great group of guys realized how much I relied on M to put together an agenda and make sure meetings ran smoothly and efficiently. However, for me it was an indelible lesson in recognizing and either developing or learning to assign tasks where I was deficient. No doubt, these were good lessons to learn before reaching the “real world.”

Were you involved in any groups outside of high school? Tell us about them in the comment section.

We Returned Home: Step 126

Our world was changing greatly that spring and the retreat at Elkhart Lake gave future community leaders a chance to step back and reflect upon the world they were about to inherit. We took in the whole world from the perspective of young adults with a shared Jewish heritage, a fervent desire to move forward from the scars of the holocaust our parents experienced, and a vision of harmony, peace and love. From the fragrant smell of lilacs blossoming near a crystal clear lake our idyllic dream beckoned to breathe life into what became known as the baby boomer generation.

Then, we returned home.

For a week or two I scheduled time with my father to learn how to drive a car with a stick shift. Although a few cars with standard transmissions had the shift on the floor between “bucket seats,” most cars at the time kept the shifter on the column to maintain the bench seat allowing two passengers to sit in the front with the driver.

Donna and I quickly realized this setup worked better for the driver, me, to put his arm around the girlfriend, her, while driving. She would however have to slip away so I could use my right arm to shift after each stop. We became quite adept at this and she would slip back in against my chest and neck as soon as we were up to cruising speed.

Once my foot release on the clutch coordinated with my steady pressure on the accelerator Dad let me use the car. Yet another American Motors vehicle, this three speed six cylinder with overdrive was a nine-year-old Rambler with a flat gray painted exterior he “practically stole” for two hundred dollars. Overdrive, a way to provide fuel economy, was achieved in third gear by taking the foot off the accelerator and then putting it back.

All these features enhanced the driving experience, but the special feature my friends found most fascinating was the reclining front seat. Adorned with a flower and windmill print fabric tailored to fit the seat by pulling a lever the vertical portion reclined at several positions, but also went all the way back to align with the horizontal position of the front and back seats creating a virtual bed that enhanced the parked experience.

Armed with our new skills for creating a better planet we climbed into the Rambler with excitement in every breath. Next, we headed to the Rexall drugstore to buy a twelve-pack of Teddy Bear toilet paper. Finally, we carefully selected our targets. In order to make this a most meaningful event we chose only the homes of close friends who lived near enough for us to enhance several landscapes before the evening was done.

Waiting until it was dark enough to complete our mission without being detected by the occupants or neighbors, we parked a short distance away and worked in pairs winding the tissue through branches, around mailboxes, and across front doors. Donna and I created a signature move where one of us would wrap it around one door handle then toss the roll over the rooftop to the other who would take it and wrap it around the other door handle.

Most of our targets, both parents and children, received our gesture in the spirit it was intended laughing the whole time they cleaned up the mess. However, my cousin Richard, Jim’s father, surprised me. A prankster himself, he once told my father to go ahead and turn in a broken bottle along with the good bottles for his deposit. As my father approached the clerk for his refund Richard started hollering about the broken bottle and embarrassed my father. But, he didn’t see our mischief in the same way. He told us he thought the neighbors would think it was those Jews creating trouble. To this day I believe he was wrong, but we never did paper his house again.

What pranks did you enjoy as a teenager? Please share in the comment section.

Remembering Elkhart Lake: Step 123

It may have been spring break or just a weekend late in spring, but either way it is one of the more memorable moments in my life. Everyone attending met at the Bnai Brith Youth Organization district office. Harry, the executive director of the organization and one of the few adults who preferred kids or young adults as he referred to them call him by his first name, checked to make sure everyone who signed up for the leadership development conference boarded the bus to Elkhart Lake.

As candidates to succeed Steve P as president of Witt AZA, M and I knew this would be our time to learn how the organization actually functioned. Steve P had been elected the president of the district council, or leader of the leaders so to speak.

When we arrived we went to our assigned cabins, unpacked our suitcases and backpacks, and headed to the main hall. Harry welcomed us and gave a brief rundown of the agenda and what he called his expectations rather than rules. Then, he turned it over to Rob, the outgoing council president, who ran the session.

Introductions took up most of the remainder of the first day, but we broke into groups to do one problem solving exercise before dinner. During a break in the action Paul, who had moved to the eastside but was still a loyal member of King David AZA, brought me some cherry tobacco that he stuffed into the bowl of my pipe and patted down with a special metal tool. I know, sixteen year olds smoking pipes, how bizarre. But then we tend to follow our role models, and Harry smoked a pipe, and so did Hef.

Now strange as this may seem it had its desired affect. While I have no idea what the problem we were working on was, as I took the pipe out of my mouth to talk Donna grabbed it from me and started smoking it. She had been Jeff M’s girlfriend a few months back and was a good friend of Rina, who I had taken to last year’s sweetheart dance. One thing was for sure, I was no match for her advances as she giggled and placed the pipe back in my mouth.

Most of the exercises in the sessions at Elkhart Lake were my first exposure to organizational skills and concepts that would serve me well throughout my life, but they have since faded into the blur of seminars with similar topics. However, the relationship I developed with Donna would have an even greater impact, because not only is it a wonderful memory but also because she was truly my first girlfriend.

It started small with us first sharing stories about some of the guys in Witt, and her telling tales of girls in Leo N. Levi BBG. Then, we compared notes on our respective high schools. She went to Washington. Finally, when we got around to discussing families it turned out her maternal grandfather was my maternal grandfather’s cousin, which probably means our great-grandparents were brothers. It didn’t qualify for incest, but we wouldn’t have let it stop us anyway.

As night fell and we found ourselves alone on a bench there are two things I remember distinctly. First, how totally at ease I was with my arm around her and hers around me, and second how good she smelled. As we kissed for the first time I was stunned and excited when she pushed her tongue into my mouth.

The sensation took the meaning of intimacy to a whole new level for me and I was sorry later when I shared it with the guys in my cabin, especially the two Jeffs. Jeff M seemed dejected when he said she had never kissed him that way, and Jeff P interpreted it to mean she wanted my body. Whatever it meant it would continue once we returned to Milwaukee.

Tell us about meeting your first girlfriend or boyfriend in the comment section.

Experiencing the Intoxicating Exhilaration: Step 122

When a sixteen year old boy is asked what he likes best about driving he most likely will say it is the opportunity it gives him to get from one place to the next without having to rely on his parents, or if he happens to be waxing philosophical, an unusual trait for a sixteen year old but many hormonally challenged sixteen year olds act strangely as did I, he might speak of the freedom or independence it provides. Rarely will he be straight forward enough to say it’s all about impressing girls, or if he isn’t into girls due to maturity or other factors, that it’s the thrill of having control over a powerful machine.

Now except for a brief period when I was working on earning my boy scout marksmanship merit badge by busting up some targets with a .22 caliber open sight rifle I have never experienced the intoxicating exhilaration associated with firing weapons, nor do I wish to, and being among the last to turn our push in for a power mower the chance to feel the blood pounding in my ears and the adrenaline coursing through my veins came to me for the first time when I spun the Dodge in a donut on that empty, icy Red Owl parking lot the night I earned my driver’s license.

Among the group of friends who earned their driver’s licenses late that winter and early spring only a couple were able to get cars frequently enough to do what is commonly referred to as joy riding or pleasure cruising. M was usually consigned to some large family car at least until late in spring when he showed up with a small but clean Pontiac Lemans. Jeff M rarely had the opportunity to drive one of the family vehicles except at work. It would take me a while to learn to handle a stick shift well enough to have an option beside the incredibly slow moving Dodge, and then there was Jeff P.

Our mutual friend, Mac, not his first name but the initial syllable of his surname, invariably rode shotgun since unlike the rest of us he never had a car and he was not phased by the way Jeff P drove. Remembering that due to some rare blood disorder Jeff P was unable to participate in athletics, it may come as no surprise that he chose to push the aforementioned adrenaline rush to unparalleled extremes.

Looking at the pale blue Buick Special with a body structure and size similar to the Corvair or Lemans one might logically assume the car would move at a rather tepid speed. So, when Jeff rolled down the window and punched the accelerator on my maiden voyage in the vehicle my eyes screamed with amazement as not only my hair shot back but also my upper lip nearly touched my ear lobes from the incredible G-force. Mac simply turned up the radio and Jeff P laughed as we shot through intersection after intersection while Jeff M, M and I closed our eyes and prayed in the backseat.

When Jeff opened up the hood to show us what provided the thrust our mouths hung open stunned by what was stuffed into the limited space. Somehow his father had a Super Wildcat 465 installed in the undersized Buick. The 360 horsepower engine with a specially mounted pair of four-barrel carburetors known as “dual quads” had a 425 cubic inch displacement that provided 465 pounds of torque. Designed for the much larger Electra and Riviera due to its shortened “nailhead” valves it was miraculously crammed into the smaller car.

I happily drove home in the Dodge covering the brake at each intersection, leaning forward to check for cross traffic and pressing the buttons, first, second and drive to assist the engine in regaining enough power to resume my previous speed.

Do you have any good car stories? Tell us about them in the comment section.

My Ticket Out: Step 121

Although being an employee at the Pizza Wagon was ideally suited to meeting up with friends while working there were two distinct drawbacks. First, even though Mr. P was fair about allowing each of us to take certain nights off for special events, we all sacrificed the chance to go to many school and social activities. Second, the pay sucked. Sure we all got our nickel raises and busboys split tips with waitresses, but our ten percent of their fifteen percent of a four dollar pizza amounted to about $1.35 which when divided three ways came to eight to ten cents an hour, which in turn limited our financial strength when we were able to attend those special events.

That winter, a short time after we started to drive, M went to work for his uncle. When wrestling season was over he approached me about a position at his uncle’s wholesale drug company. In my wildest dreams the idea of working at Wiro Drug would never have occurred to me, but when M told me I would be making $1.60 an hour he could have told me I would be shoveling horse manure and the only thing I would have wanted to know was whether or not I needed to provide my own shovel. A fifty cent raise, a forty-five percent increase in salary, this was my ticket out of poverty.

Wiro Drug provided daily inventory for most of the pharmacies in the Milwaukee area. A typical order might include a 24 pack of Excedrin or Bayer, a few dozen packages of A&D ointment, a dozen Vicks Formula 44, a couple dozen Phillips Milk of Magnesia, a few dozen Kotex regulars or supers, a dozen Breck super hold and 3 Clairol number 31. My job most of the time was to stock the shelves on the main floor and fill orders.

When M and I arrived after school we entered the front door. M would grab a lab coat and sit at a desk in the front office and take orders from customers. I would put on a shop apron and head to the main floor where I would grab a shopping cart and push it around the aisles pulling the items listed on the invoice off the shelf and placing them in the cart. M and Uncle Max kept filling out new orders for Bob, Harvey and myself.

Uncle Max was always smiling and jovial when we arrived showing a true interest in how we were doing. However, once we were on the clock his demeanor would shift from soft and fuzzy to stern and authoritarian taskmaster.

Bob was a pre-med student at Marquette University who had worked for Uncle Max for a number of years and could tell where everything was located in the warehouse with his eyes blindfolded. He stayed calm and was the guy everyone turned to when Uncle Max became excited and started to charge into the warehouse hollering about something missing from an order or an extra item in an order or wanting to know why the order he asked me to complete fifteen minutes ago wasn’t complete ten minutes ago.

Once I learned where the inventory was located the amount of time it took to complete an order shrank significantly, but somehow it was never fast enough for Uncle Max. Now, admittedly this was one task M was definitely better at than me, and while he usually spent most of his time taking orders on the phone when he needed to fill an order he did it as fast or faster than anyone.

Fortunate for me there was Harvey. A soft-spoken man with Clarabelle the clown hair, he was a veteran of numerous tirades and handled most confrontations with a smile, although he occasionally would walk away muttering.

At the end of the day no matter what had happened Uncle Max turned into the same smiling jovial guy who greeted everyone courteously when they arrived.

Did you have any memorable jobs or bosses? Tell us about them in the comment section.

A Final Chapter in Driver's Education: Step 120

After completing the classroom text, workbook and simulator portions of driver’s education, and spending a month of intensive road preparation with both of my parents, and passing the road test with several feet of snow on the ground one might think that I needed no further instruction. Of course, that’s wrong. Actually today one would probably not be able to take the road test without first passing a certified road course administered by a state approved institution. Such was not the case in Wisconsin when I was learning to drive, and so that spring I took the mandated behind the wheel portion of the driver’s education course nearly two months after receiving my license.

Unlike the private courses that have replaced the ones previously taught by school programs, my instruction took place for three hours after school for one week and was taught by a teacher from another school whose name I have forgotten, but will refer to as Mr. Matthews. All the automobiles for the program were brand new and donated by area dealers. My group drove an Ambassador by American Motors. While only a small group of Milwaukeeans actually owned American Motors cars, they were a source of pride because they were built right next door in beautiful Kenosha as local dealers reminded us in numerous television commercials and billboard ads. My family was the exception since we owned three of them over the course of several years.

The two students in the car with me could not have been more different. Cathy was a quiet and reserved student I had failed to notice even once during my year and a half at Marshall, and who practically faded into the beige upholstery once she sat down in the backseat. On the other hand, Gerhardt, who like me already had his license, but also owned his own car, a well polished Corvair, boldly raced down Capitol Drive in the right lane passing cars in order to get from Riverside High on the eastside of town to 64^th and Fiebrantz Avenue where we sat waiting for him.

The first day he pulled up, crushed a cigarette in the ashtray, and had smoke billowing out of his mouth as he asked with a heavy German accent if he was in the right place. When Mr. Matthews indicated he was his instructor he pulled the car over and started walking in our direction his shirt wide open and his hip huggers slung well below his navel. Mr. Matthews told him he was in a no parking zone and he would wait for him to move the car, but Gerhardt just shrugged, buttoned the shirt and climbed in the front seat.

Each day Mr. Matthews would have Cathy drive first while Gerhardt and I sat in back and visited. Turned out his father was a well-known Volkswagen mechanic but being a rebel Gerhardt bought himself a Chevy, at least that’s what he called it. My turn came next and I could hear him chuckling because he knew I was going to accelerate gently and never exceed the speed limit.

When it was his turn he liked to punch the accelerator to get a reaction out of Mr. Matthews. It only worked the first couple times, because he soon realized like Cathy and I that Gerhardt despite rolling down and sticking his elbow out the window kept his hands at the prescribed ten and two position and conscientiously applied defensive driving tactics. In the end we all passed the course and Mr. Matthews breathed easier.

Do you recall your behind the wheel class? Tell us about it in the comment section.

No Lasting Scars: Step 119

One of the things I had been looking forward to prior to getting my driver’s license was the opportunity to be the one who drove on a date. All the advantages of being chauffeured on a date, other than by your parent, really never entered my mind until years later. Having control of the wheel, steering a date, a friend and a friend’s date to the appointed venue, and then exercising the same control over any other stops and the safe return of all passengers at the end of the evening, filled me with a sense of importance.

A few weeks after the escape going the wrong way down a one-way street I overheard Marlene, our chapter sweetheart, talking with a few of the guys at one of our meetings about her younger sister. She was telling them how Helane, her sister, was feeling bad because a number of her friends had been asked out on dates and she was always left behind. It was obvious Marlene was trying to be a good older sister and looking for one of the guys to step up to the plate.

Now, my own sister always had the best intentions when it came to looking out for my brother and myself. Certainly I would never want to speak for Neil, and for all I know Peggy may have arranged a wonderful connection for him, but given the collection of young women she selected for me all of whom I am sure had great attributes she had no clue what I was looking for in a date.

It occurred to me that this same lack of sibling intuition may be at work with Marlene, but I was willing to risk it because as far as I was concerned her younger sister was a vision of loveliness. Recognizing the guys with whom she was talking would have to dig even deeper than I would to find the nerve to call Helane, despite her older sister’s attempt to make her seem like easy pickings, I asked if it would be all right if I gave her a call. She never said as much, but given the friendly smile I felt I had her approval.

Before I called I checked to make sure what nights I would have access to the car. Then, assuming my usual place in the basement I took a few deep breaths, and exhaling dialed the phone. We decided to go out for pizza after the basketball game, because she was on the drill team that performed at half time and in between quarters. We were supposed to double with her friend, Pippi, who was also on the drill team, and her date.

A few days before the game Helane stopped me in the hall to let me know Pippi had some kind of family obligation and wouldn’t be able to go out after the game. I asked her if she wanted to call it off or postpone the date for another time. But I think she really wanted to go out on a date, and I wasn’t going to deny her.

At the game I sat in the bleachers by myself and watched as she and the rest of the drill team in their white blouses, v-neck sweaters, pleated skirts and P.F. Flyers with bobby socks turned and stepped with precision around the gymnasium. We met outside the girls’ locker room after the game. As I directed her out of the building and toward the car I noticed a certain level of seriousness in her demeanor.

When we got to the car I attempted to begin a friendly conversation. It went nowhere. As far as I can remember things didn’t get any better at the restaurant or on the drive home. Driving on a date didn’t have quite the appeal I had imagined, and maybe being on a date wasn’t quite as thrilling as she had envisioned. At any rate I am pretty sure it left no lasting scars.

Did you have a teenage date that fell short of expectations? Tell us about it in the comment section.