Time to Reflect: Step 82

Once again I find myself turning to my good friend Mark Twain for the insight that comes when you have been dead for a hundred years. In one of his more profound moments he remarked that one must, “Get your facts first, then you can distort them as you please.” Every day I wake up with thoughts about what important facts from my past can I share with my readers.

Most of the time I realize the facts really are not very important, especially if they are merely things that happened in my little world decades ago. What is important is not what my friends or I did in some overcrowded high school, or even recalling the significant facts of history recorded in the newspapers of that time, but rather how those facts make me the person I am and enable me to relate a story to someone at this time.

As my life progresses it has become apparent to me people who have born witness to the exact same events at the exact same time as me do not see them in the exact same light. Actually, those who have known me the longest, my mother, brother and sister, seldom agree with the way I recount certain details of family events. Never accusing me of willfully distorting the truth, and often amazed at my ability to recall episodes they completely erased from their collective minds, they still manage to have an entirely different perception of facts. Fortunately, having served on juries for two different attempted murder trials I have seen how twelve intelligent individuals can watch and listen to the same witness and see and hear completely different stories.

Anyone who has ever worked with media knows the angle of the camera, the amount of light, and the placement of the microphone impacts the way an audience views a subject. Similarly, where we stand in relation to a mirror determines what kind of image we will see reflected.

Yesterday, as I read the preface to John Grogan’s follow up to Marley and Me, a second memoir titled, The Longest Trip Home, I questioned his ability to factually recount a conversation he had with his father six years prior to the publication of the book. My mental inquiry came about not because I thought Mr. Grogan attempted to distort what his father said, but aware plucking words from the past with precision without the aid of a recording device is nearly impossible.

Although I have yet to attempt recalling conversations from my past verbatim, the effort to remain true to the facts, only adding distortion based on knowledge acquired through time and hindsight, is one of the virtues of storytelling I value. So, when I hold the mirror up I am looking for an honest depiction reflected through the prism of time and rendered crystal clear through the filter on this writer’s tap. Nothing would be a greater honor than to have someone find wisdom in these reflections a hundred years after I am dead.

Time to Reflect: Step 75

For this week’s quote I turn again to the great Irish writer George Bernard Shaw, who said, “The man who writes about himself and his own time is the only man who writes about all people and all time.” Over the past seventy-five days I have attempted to tell my own story, to offer a weekly reflection of my current thoughts, and a weekly commentary on current events from my unique vantage point. If Mr. Shaw is correct my story written about the times in which I have lived should be representative of all people and all times. While having such universal appeal satisfies me as a writer, my purpose as a blogger has been to provide a forum. When I began this journey at the start of my sixtieth year of life my intention was to offer a daily post for people traveling the blogosphere to use in their everyday lives. Since one of the features of a blog is the opportunity to respond to the author, or put another way interact with the blogger, my hope was to inspire numerous comments. Extremely appreciative of those who have commented, especially comments coming from individuals I did not know before starting this blog, and recognizing this journey is an evolving process my expectations remain strong for making this a place where everyone will feel free to contribute. Maybe what is needed is a simpler response form such as the “like” response given to Facebook visitors. Certainly it is easy to understand how someone may wish only to make a short stop to read and carry away what she needs without feeling compelled to respond. In our fast paced world where the average time on message is measured in seconds rather than minutes or hours a passing glance is preferable to no glance at all. My desire to have those who come along step when they need to stride or wing their way through the journey is most likely some insecurity I have regarding the quality of my artistry. During the past week there have been several opportunities to consult with colleagues and collaborators concerning the potential Every Step of the Way has to serve a community and become an emerging enterprise. Although the idea of having followers become paid subscribers, similar to online newspapers and magazines, is one that holds no appeal, finding businesses that provide products and services visitors to a blog desire has been shown to generate substantial advertising revenues elsewhere. Questions arose regarding what were the demographics of the market in which my blog fit. Methods for stimulating expansion of those finding and using the blog as a forum were explored. Areas such as market segmentation, current trends, and effective means of social networking have become research projects. Questions also arose as to whether the blog might be split into more than one format and whether more visuals and video may be included as it evolves. In taking a closer look at who I am as a writer, what I want to achieve as a blogger, and how I might better serve you the reader and blogosphere traveler, the possibilities for growth and development become limitless.

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.

What Was That All About Anyway?: Step 59

Probably everyone remembers a fight or two from their days in school, but chances are if you are anything like me you have not the faintest clue as to why the fight took place. Two such fights took place during my years at Samuel Morse Junior High. Word spread like wildfire that Mike M was going to fight Vic. Both were Italian. Both were short with well-developed upper bodies. And both had a large circle of friends. Vic had the dark wavy hair and brooding good looks of the stereotypical Italian leading man, while Mike had blonde curly hair accented by his black rimmed glasses and gleaming smile. Vic and his friends had little use for school and only planned to hang around until their sixteenth birthdays when they were eligible to dropout and go make some real money. Mike M was the kid Mr. Hrlavich trusted to lock up his office and make sure everyone was out of the locker room, something that teachers can no longer do because of liability issues. He was also an amateur boxer who fought in Gold Gloves tournaments and had plans to go to college. The fight took place in the grassy area in front of the trees at the corner of 84^th and Congress, a spot later to be designated as a city park. As soon as they had taken off their shirts and were facing each other wearing T-shirts that revealed their muscular torsos Vic charged Mike and kicked him the groin. Mike’s hands went down and Vic plowed his knuckles into the side of his face cutting the flesh and causing blood to gush forth. Vic started to kick Mike in the side, but despite his obvious pain Mike grabbed Vic’s leg and threw him to the ground and started to beat on Vic’s head with one punch after another until everyone heard the sirens. All sorts of rumors circulated about what transpired after the crowd dispersed, and neither one returned to school for a while after the fight. When they did return there were no evident injuries or scars as far as I could tell, and for some reason Vic and Mike M became friends despite their differences. Now, the other fight took place between two girls I had known since my earliest days at Grantosa Drive Elementary. In fact, it took place in the empty lot across 82^nd Street from the school and just south of Hampton in what would become in another year the parking lot for the first Kohl’s Department Store. As described earlier, Linda V was a rather flamboyant and flirtatious girl, which stood in stark contrast to Kathy D. who other than the fact she was on just about every class picture I took at Grantosa and my neighbor Wade liked her quiet demure behavior in the third or fourth grade was somebody who was otherwise completely off the radar. Since this was the first fight between girls I would attend I had no idea what to expect, but being an adolescent boy my imagination kicked into high gear and caused my already out of control hormones to ravage my body even further eliciting several responses that I tried futilely to suppress. As a result I held a certain degree of ambivalence toward watching the actual event and made sure to keep my books in hand. Most of the boys wanted to see the girls rip each other’s blouses and a few even yelled out instructions. They immediately went for each other’s hair and both pulled out clumps from the other’s skull. Then, one threw the other to the ground and they tore each other’s pantyhose and when they yanked on their underwear revealing areas even men’s magazines didn’t expose at that time most of the boys, myself included, turned away disappointed. It took the girls a while longer to resume their friendship, but eventually they shared the same common bond they had for years. Which of course leads to the question, what was that all about anyway?

Defying the Odds of Popularity: Step 56

Kerry was the kind of kid who when evaluated from a purely objective standpoint had three strikes against him on the popularity chart. First, he was new in town, arriving just a few weeks before my bar mitzvah. Second, his voice was high and childlike. And third, he was short, at least a full head shorter than me. None of this mattered, because Kerry had the swagger and confidence usually reserved for the starting quarterback of the championship team. Before he was at Morse even a week he was going steady with Lori, the shortest but one of the cutest girls at the school. Now, let me explain what going steady means in junior high school terms. Usually, but not always, there is a friendship ring exchanged. The girl may either wear this on her finger or on a thin chain around her neck. The boy will call the girl every night and whenever possible will walk her home from school. They exchange photographs and often go to the photo booth at Woolworth’s to get a set of pictures of themselves together. Each will write the other’s name all over their slam book and will duly note their relationship in the slam books of all their friends. Finally, kissing, second base, or any other hanky panky is mutually exclusive. For Lori going steady meant staying interested in the same boy for two to three weeks. I remember her telling me at the faculty-student basketball game she had gone steady with everyone on the team. When I reminded her she had gone steady with most of the boys in the school she giggled and feigned slapping me on the arm. At any rate, her relationship with Kerry established his credibility with the female population of Morse. Most girls regarded Kerry and Lori as the cutest couple and couldn’t wait for them to break up to have their shot at Kerry. During the course of those two weeks Kerry started making friends and sending out invitations to his bar mitzvah. When I received mine it was too late to mail him an invitation to my bar mitzvah, so I got permission from my parents and called. He came, had fun at the party, and gave me the latest fashion from Johnny Walker’s, a sharp looking red cardigan sweater with black piping and buttons that I would wear every chance I had for the next year. His bar mitzvah was a tandem affair because at the time his synagogue, Beth El, had an enormous congregation and probably a hundred kids trying to fill the fifty-two slots in a year. However, the celebration at Fazio’s on Fifth, an impressive nightclub in downtown Milwaukee, was his alone. Dark, despite the daylight outside, the club served excellent cuisine in the quintessential atmosphere. After lunch the adults, many in from Chicago, danced to the jazz combo while the kids went in the front foyer and sang Beatle tunes. That night a few of us were invited over to Kerry’s house for dessert. I had never been in an apartment larger than the home in which I lived. Kerry gave us a tour of the apartment and then took us in back to see the pool that had been drained for the winter. He said he’d have us back to go swimming in the summer. Then, we went inside and sat on the bottom of the spiral staircase. We transformed ourselves into Dave Clark of the Dave Clark Five singing and using silverware to pound out the beat to Glad All Over and Bits and Pieces. We never did get to swim in that pool because Kerry moved back to Chicago by the time summer came. I’m afraid we did not keep in touch, but the guy who had his bar mitzvah with him that day at Beth El, yet another Steve, who I know simply as M, would eventually become my lifelong friend.

Rumors, Unfair and Out of Balance: Step 53

One of the great mysteries of life is why we choose to believe certain stories we hear while rejecting others. Certainly, one method we use to determine the validity of a story is the source from which we receive it. Another factor we consider is the amount of information we have to support the story even if that mass is just as fallacious as the original. Without a doubt it helps if the story fits with what our view or assumptions are about the situation or the individuals involved. Lately, some of the sources that report events have taken to fact checking. Unfortunately, when an adolescent is exposed to a tantalizing story about his peers there usually isn’t someone in the halls or on the playground checking the facts. So, for example, when a friend, who is just as hormonal as the rest of the junior high school male population and equally prone to wildly delusional images of eroticism states without equivocation that a certain girl who just recently has appeared on everyone’s radar is easy there is no one for you to turn to for statistical data to support the assertion. This dilemma was hard at work when someone, and for the life of me I’m not sure whether that someone had an extra X or Y chromosome, told me that Doris, better known as Kitty, liked me. Let’s be clear, while I was thrilled to hear of this revelation I had only recently become familiar with who this girl was, had never taken a single class together with her, did not know if we had any mutual friends, and of course had never spoken to her. Still, it was nice to know she cared. Now, while I can’t be sure where Kitty first saw me I know I first saw her and spoke with her in the school auditorium, where they showed movies during the lunch period. These movies were particularly popular during inclement weather, and in Wisconsin this can become a fairly regular occurrence. During the movie she sat with her friends and I sat with mine, but afterwards we’d talk before heading to class. Then, it happened. I should have seen it coming, but I’m afraid she caught me totally unprepared. Perhaps, it’s just that girls mature earlier than boys, but she took the bold step of asking me if I wanted to come over to her house after school. Rather than just saying yes, which is what I probably wanted to do, or finding some feasible reason to decline I just went blank and stared. Our romance was over before it began. Weeks later, when I learned she was going steady with Roger I didn’t want to believe it, but then I saw them together after school and his arm was draped over her shoulders. Rumors flew, and even Shotsie, who knew a lot about what was happening between different couples, would neither confirm nor deny that they were doing it. One story claimed Kitty had to wash sheets to get rid of his pubic hairs. That one was too much for me. I had to know. I still remember looking in the mirror in the locker room and Roger smiling at his own image while combing his blonde wavy locks. Then, he casually glanced over at my reflection and said, “Come on, you’re an intelligent guy.” Exactly, that’s why I want to know where the fact checker is hiding when you have to be sure to draw the right conclusion.

The Phenomenon: Step 45

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

A New Kind of Store Comes to Town: Step 44

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

Every Boy Needs a Shelf: Step 43

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

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

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

From Where I Stand: Step 41

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

Preparation for the Big Event: Step 39

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

Johnny Walkers at Capitol Court: Step 38

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

The Irresistible Urge To Do Wrong: Step 37

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peer Pressure is Less with Laid Back Friends: Step 29

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

Back In My Element: Step 28

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

Remembering Camp Indian Sands: Step 25

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