It was about 1:00 on Friday afternoon and we had just returned to class from our Lunch break. Math class was just beginning when the public address system in the front of the room came to life. It was broadcasting a radio newscast of some sort. Most of the students began to giggle and look around assuming the Principal had inadvertently hit the wrong switch in his office. Very quickly it was apparent this was not a joke. President John Kennedy had been shot while riding in a motorcade in Dallas Texas. The broadcast was reporting that he was being rushed to the hospital in very serious condition. The classroom suddenly became very still. Not certain of the protocol in this situation, the teacher headed for the Principal’s office for instructions. The silence began to be broken by sobbing and small talk. The speaker interrupted our thoughts again, The President was dead. Although we were not aware of it, our world, at fourteen years old, would never again be the same. School was dismissed and everyone headed for home.
Television came of age in the next few days. Up to this point, we watched it mostly for entertainment. There was a 15 minute news broadcast in the evening, but that was not of much interest to teenagers. Now we watched it for every bit of news we could find. Walter Cronkite from CBS News had been the voice announcing President Kennedy’s death. Now the world tuned in to get his guidance. All programing on the three available channels were constant news broadcasts. The world seemed to come to a standstill. No one new what to do. Churches opened their doors, 24 hours a day for impromptu worship. Neighbors gathered on front porches and in each others living rooms. Everyone was always within earshot of TV or Radio broadcasts. Slowly, the story was revealed. The President had been assassinated. Numerous conspiracy theories began to become public. It was repulsive news , but it was so compelling that you dare not miss a word being broadcast.
At fourteen years of age and a high school freshman my unquestioned sense of security was now in jeopardy. Our country had been so proud of the Kennedy’s and their message of hope and determination. Some of us had been prompted by the Inaugural address a couple of years before, to look into becoming an Astronaut in the new Space Program. Everyone knew someone who was planning to join the Peace Corps when they finished High School. Government service was now something at the top of many Guidance Counselors agendas. Now what? Who would carry the touch of hope now for the younger generation?
It was during this time of uncertainty that my family drew it’s strength from each other and our unspoken belief in God. My Grandma and Grandpa drove up from Evansville, phone calls were made to all of the relatives and we began to pray. Our Mom and Dad gathered my brothers and I in our living room and asked us to pray for the United States and for John-John and Caroline Kennedy. So with one eye on the Television and the other on each other we stayed close together that terrible weekend and we realized that we had more strength when we were one.
In the following months we began to heal as a nation, but it was never again going to be the same. There were now questions where before assumptions had been. There was distrust where security had once flourished. My family became stronger through this process. We now seemed more appreciative of each others presence.
In just a couple of years I was going to have to declare a college major. At his point the Peace Corps was now getting serious consideration. One thing was certain, what ever I did as an Adult, John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s example was never far from my mind.
My only source of transportation to school was the Shoe Leather express. Our school was 32 blocks away. My pathway was a series of shortcuts that would wind it’s way through alleys, across parking lots and along city streets. Weather was a constant factor for which to be prepared. My Dad drove the family car to work and was usually gone by the time we left for school. On a few occasions when the weather was too adverse for travel, he would be late leaving and drop us off. I don’t recall that happening very often.
To add to the issue I was a member of the Safety Patrol and had the responsibility of getting to my post before other kids started using that crossing. Safety Patrol Boys, (girls did not yet have equal rights, or want them in this endeavor) had the responsibility of maning high traffic intersections near the schools and directing traffic for both students and automobiles. A Safety Patrol Boy wore a badge and a white canvas web sash/belt over their coat. Their job was to move to the middle of the intersection when a group of students began to accumulate on the far side of the street. The method was to hold up their hand in a stop type gesture and their motive was to make motorists stop from going through the intersections until every student had cleared the street. Today this position is handled by elderly folks called Crossing Guards.
Safety Patrol Boys had complete authority to stop vehicles or students as they saw fit. Occasionally a motorist would disobey a directive from the Safety Patrol and try to slide through the intersection. The recourse was swift and sure. The license number of the offender was turned in to the Principal and he notified the local neighborhood police. Generally a warning letter was issued, however if repeat offenses occurred, a traffic ticket was possible. Safety Patrol Boys had unique authority over student and vehicular traffic during their duty time every morning and afternoon. They were to be obeyed without question. Like everything else in post-war America, positions of rank were assigned to this corps of boys. The center of the badge worn indicated the rank. Patrolman badges had silver centers, Lieutenants were red and the Captain’s center was blue. Depending on the size of the school there were about three Lieutenants but only one Captain. The higher ranks did not have permanent street assignments but were generally floaters that filled in as vacancies popped up due to illness. The Captain’s job was to make sure every post was covered every day. For an elementary school sixth grader to achieve the rank of Captain was an honor and a lot of responsibility. I achieved that rank in the fall of my sixth grade year but abdicated the position when I found out it was constantly making me late to the Friday afternoon Sock Hops. Certain priorities win out over everything when your hormones rule the day.
My walk to school took about 45 minutes every day. It was not dangerous or laborious, it was by necessity. Unaware of it at the time, we were watched over by a cadre of caring parents, neighbors and grandparents along the way. Many times a full report of a shenanigan that I had pulled on my journey, was waiting to be discussed by my Mom, upon arriving home. Our neighborhood was connected by folks who attended our Church , the guys at the local Barber Shop, Mom’s Home Economics Club, the Firemen on duty at the Fire Station and many more community watchful eyes. These anonymous people were annoying to most eleven year olds but served their purpose in keeping us safe and out of trouble. In those days neighbors took care of neighbors and watched out for children because they considered it their civic responsibility.
I couldn’t wait to be old enough to enter fifth grade. This was the grade level in which admission to the Friday afternoon Sock Hop was granted. They were held immediately after school in the gymnasium. They officially were known as Record Hops because a teacher seated on stage was tasked with playing 45 rpm records on a RCA record player. The typical trappings of this highly anticipated weekly event were a cardboard table for the music player and crape paper taped on the walls in school colors. The event was nicknamed “Sock Hop” because it was necessary to remove our shoes upon entry onto the gym’s wooden floors. This was, after all, Indiana and not so much as a scuff was allowed on the Basketball floor.
Upon entry, shoes were immediately removed and lined up on opposite sides of the room. Thus, the boys lined up on one side and the girls lined up on the other. These were days of Poodle Skirts for the girls and pegged pants for the guys. Admission at our school began at 3:15 and the music began promptly at 3:30. Generally, things began very slowly. Mostly girls danced with girls and the boys leaned against the wall trying their best to look like James Dean. Then after about 5 songs the first “Ladies Choice” of the day was announced. This challenge allowed the girls to walk across the floor to pick the guy of their choice. He was then obligated to dance with her for the “slow song” that was playing. Many a boy began his association with high blood pressure while the girl of his choice was heading across that floor. By the time it was apparent he was going to be picked, his pulse was off the charts. Of course, being cool during the acceptance was paramount to the process. The cooler the girl was, the longer the acceptance took. It may have been only the fifth grade but boys had playground reputations to uphold. It didn’t matter that most boys did not know how to dance, this was as close as most of them had ever been to a girl, except for their sister , which didn’t count. Most 45 rpm songs were about 3 minutes in duration, so after this involved process most dancing was virtually non-existent. From the guys viewpoint, this was a good day. You got singled out and you got to put your arm around the opposite sex. For the boys who got a little too close, one of the many teacher chaperones moved in to make sure there was daylight between the now smiling couple. Rarely did a guy venture in the opposite direction to pick a girl for participation. However when he did, there were several others who followed suit so as not to be outdone.
All of this high octane activity came to a halt promptly at 5:00. Most of us had to be home to a nightly family supper serving at 5:30 or 6:00. During the process of recovering our shoes we tried to keep an eye on the afore mentioned dance partner. If they were leaving alone that was a signal , if their parents weren’t waiting to pick them up, there was a chance to walk them home. If a guy scored a dance and a walk home all in the same day, sleep would not come easily that night.
As we got older and Sock Hops moved into the evening hours on Saturday nights, the traditions didn’t change much. The music was more sophisticated, the rooms were darker, the dances were more intimate, and the chaperones were less visible but the highlight of the night was still the “Ladies’ Choice”. To watch that lovely creature come across the gymnasium floor and bestow upon you the honor of being picked as desirable in front of your peers, well it doesn’t get any better than that, no matter how long you live.
In the Autumn of my 15th year , Mom came home from a Doctor’s appointment with a smile on her face. All she said was that we were going to get an addition to the family. I knew it, we were finally going to get a dog. That night at the Supper table Dad announced that “we” were going to have a baby. A baby? I thought we were getting a dog. My 2nd little brother was already going to school and we were finally getting him house broken. A baby, what were we going to do with another brother? The last one kept getting in the way and had this annoying habit of wanting to go everywhere I went.
As Winter turned to Spring, Mom became really ill and really big. One evening my Dad took me and little brother 1 to the Garage for a discussion. The one car Garage was detached from the house and had a gravel floor, it was where all manly discussions occurred. His instructions to us were two fold. One, Mom was sick and going to be confined to her bed or the sofa for the next couple of months. This meant that we , Lb1 and I, were going to have to take over the chores of taking care of the house. This meant washing and drying the dishes, three times a day, using the electric sweeper, doing the laundry twice a week and finally making sure that the ironing in the ironing basket got done. While we were pondering this unexpected plum, we were also told that we were going to have to buy a new house. Boom, that little nugget hit me like a lightening bolt. I wasn’t sure which was going to crimp my social life more, word getting out that I was doing the ironing or that we were going to move. As we walked out of the” car house”, as my dimwitted youngest brother called it, I swore little brother 1 to secrecy about the housekeeping stuff.
As It turned out taking care of the housekeeping wasn’t so tough because women from the Church kept dropping by to help out. Ironing though was one thing they didn’t touch, maybe it was too personal. My Dad wore a suit to work everyday and his white shirts and handkerchiefs had to be ironed just so. Lb1 had to stand on a box to reach the ironing board so mostly that chore became mine. Ironing the white shirts made sense, but the handkerchiefs? I didn’t understand , it was just going to be folded up in his pocket. Nonetheless, the chore was done and probably has something to do with my lifelong aversion to cloth handkerchiefs.
One evening my Dad got us all together and gave each a slip of paper. He then announced that the baby was going to be a girl and were each getting a chance to name her. We were to write our vote down and he would put them in a hat. The first name drawn was to be her first name and the second was to be her middle one. Timeout, a girl, what were we going to do with a little sister? I was totally not prepared for this bombshell. A girl and we were going to name her by drawing names out of a hat? He must of had too many sips of the Holiday Sherry bottle from the back of the refrigerator. After several minutes the drawing was done, with a minor delay when Lb2 couldn’t figure out how to spell his choice. I looked around the room, everything was calm and Mom and Dad were smiling at the choice of names. Was I the only sane one in this family? I didn’t know how I got my name but now I was afraid to ask. Surely they didn’t stop some stranger and ask for a suggestion. That would be the only thing more weird than this.
Several days later Dad took Mom to the hospital and brought us home a Baby sister. I don’t remember all this fuss when Lb2 was born eight years ago. He came home from the hospital at the same time we were getting a new washer and dryer delivered and I just thought he came with the package. Now, everything in the house was turning pink and Mom was the happiest I think, that I had ever seen her. Plans were moving forward for a new house and Lb2 had all these dumb questions about where babies came from. It was a good thing I had my trusty bicycle to escape all the madness. I would take long rides to ponder my life and wonder where I fit in to the whole scheme. All of this trouble and uproar over an 8 pound ball of pink. I still think it would have been a lot more fun and a lot less expensive if we would have just found a dog.
I was a Boy Scout from the age of six until I was eighteen. It all began with my Mom as the Den Mother of our Cub Scout Pack. We met weekly at our house and had a monthly meeting at the School. In those days a complete and proper uniform, including the blue cap, was the order of the day. We began every meeting with the Pledge of Allegiance to the United States of America, during which we gave a two fingered salute to the Flag. Most meetings were attempts to complete ongoing craft projects. After snacks we read from the Cub Scout Manual and were finally dismissed with CSA benediction. The day of the meeting we were allowed to wear our uniform to school. In those days belonging to a Scout group carried with it a sense of pride that was evident when walking down the school hallways.
When I was 10 years old I transitioned into the Boy Scout Troop that held meetings at the Church on Monday evenings. The Random House College Dictionary lists the definition of Boy Scouts as ” an organization of boys having as its purpose the development of character and self-reliance”. I’d say that explanation was pretty close. Except, we ten to sixteen year olds weren’t clued in on that goal. We came together so we could have fun with knives, go camping on the week-ends and wear cool uniforms to school. Our Scout troop was mostly run by men who were World War II veterans. As such, we were run as a para-military organization. After the Pledge of Allegiance began the meeting, with our now grown-up three fingered salute, we were called to attention and made to dress right dress. This was a military technique to get us ready for inspection. Inspected we were , every unbuttoned pocket was a demerit. Un-shined shoes were two demerits. Pity the kid with uncombed hair, he might be sent home for the night. We did not look forward to inspections but secretly had a certain sense of pride if we passed without demerit.
Camping trips is where the real fun began. We would load up our enclosed wooden trailer about every six weeks and go to the woods, regardless of the weather. Some of my most fond memories are of camping in the snow. On these adventures we learned how to use hatchets, carving knives, bow and arrows and first aid kits. On one of these trips, my little brother missed the log he was chopping on and sunk the axe into his knee about three inches. While the Scout leaders were applying a tourniquet and drawing straws as to who was going to take him to the hospital for stiches, I decided it was a good time to work on my Hiking merit badge. It was my fear that I was going to have to accompany him and lose my weekend in the woods. When I returned later to the campsite I was assured that he as going to be fine and not to worry. The only thing I was worried about was if I had missed Supper. As it turned out he had missed all the major arteries but retained a pretty nasty scar. That scar became the subject of stories than became more outrageous every year. By the time he got to college he had obtained it by fighting off a Bear at a Boy Scout outing.
All of the equipment we used was WW II Army surplus as was evidenced by the U.S. Army stamped on it. We had the ubiquitous green wall tents, as well as metal canteens and water canisters know as “jerry cans”. If a casual observer were to happen by , we appeared to be miniature Army clones on weekend training. At the time I did not realize it but we were receiving some of the most valuable training that could be given. These hardened combat veterans had learned things in Europe and the Pacific during the War and it was their mission to prepare us for that inevitability.
The goal of every serious Boy Scout was to advance to the rank of Eagle Scout. The award was a source of pride for the whole troop if the rank was achieved. It was awarded at a Court of Honor meeting in which your Parents and siblings were allowed to attend. I achieved Eagle Scout in the Spring of my 15th year. My Mom cried and my Dad shook my hand and had a picture taken with me. It was one of the proudest moments of my young life. My picture appeared in the newspaper and I was popular at school for about a week. My brother balanced everything out that night before we fell asleep. He mentioned that I would probably, eventually, lose the silver Eagle that was hanging on a red, white and blue ribbon on my bulletin board. He however, would always have his famous scar. He was wrong, I still have it on my desk at home and am still just as proud of it.
A little over four years later I was assigned to a Recon Unit in the First Cavalry Division of the U.S. Army operating near the Cambodian border. It was here , I realized that the training I had received from my Scout Leaders was the marrow that would get me through the catastrophe called the Vietnam War.
Our milk was delivered to our home every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning. We had an insulated milk box on the front porch in which Mom would leave her order if we were not at home. However, if we were there, it was not uncommon for us to be eating breakfast and the delivery man to enter through the back door to put our order in the refrigerator. The milkman was a pseudo-family member and was occasionally offered a piece of toast or slab of bacon on his way out the door. This seamless intrusion into our daily lives was as normal as letting the dog out at night. The Milkman also delivered ice cream and he knew that with all us in attendance, breakfast the perfect time to promote the newest flavor. It wasn’t a tough sell, our Mom loved ice cream and was still getting it delivered weekly when she passed away. Home milk delivery faded away by the mid sixties and with its demise left our daily weather report and major source for neighborhood gossip. To a certain extent, so did our sense of community trust. It would still be a long time before Mom and Dad locked the doors to our house, even at night, but that security measure was on the horizon. Our milkman was a trusted member of our extended family and we counted on him for much more than milk delivery. If we had the sniffles, he had the home remedy, if our dog was lost, he kept watch for him. When we were on vacation he also checked on the house. It has been said that the times in the sixties were much more simple. This is true, however we were much more connected to the outside world by this one kind delivery man than any electronic device could ever duplicate.
Dads may have looked like they were in charge, but as anyone who grew up in the early sixties can attest, Moms were the rock upon which the family stood. My Mom was busy, so the instructions for the day were given out at the breakfast table every morning and being late was not an option, ever. Little brother number two had a bad habit of falling back asleep after Mom’s initial morning wake-up call. Breakfast was not going to be served cold by our Mom and she was only going to dish out the daily briefing once, with everyone in attendance. This presented a problem occasionally when lb2 was not in his chair. As the oldest I was dispatched to remind him of his family obligation. Merely pulling off the blanket to expose his eyelids to sunlight ceased its effectiveness after the initial try. It was apparent this kid could sleep through a fire drill. A hard yank on the ankles would land him on the floor and me in hot water because his head would hit with a thud. So, I developed the medium yank which left him dangling off the bed with his feet touching the carpet. This maneuver rendered him upright and me headed back downstairs heading for pancakes. He confided in me years later after returning from Air Force basic training, that his drill sergeant had perfected the same trick and wondered if we had any communication.
Breakfast was always hot and no requests were granted. One ate what was in front of you, all of it, every time. In later years Mom softened her stance on requests when the two youngest which were girls convinced her that they had to watch their weight. However, when the boys were growing up, most mornings, it was fried eggs cooked in the same skillet as the bacon, with toast and fried mush or oatmeal covered in butter and served with syrup or sugar. Weekends were reserved for Pancakes or French Toast covered in sugar or jelly. All of this was washed down with a big glass of cold milk.
With the chores assigned, lunch money dispersed and a kiss on the cheek, we were pointed in the direction of school. We set out secure in the knowledge that we were loved and that a snack would be waiting upon our return. Most afternoons we arrived home to a warm slice of cake or fresh baked cookies. The theory of watching one’s caloric intake had not yet taken hold and we had many friends walking us home. Everyone of them was welcome at Mom’s kitchen table.
Summer was an exciting time. Each day offered up endless possibilities for exploration and enjoyment. One day when I was 14 a couple buddies and I decided to publish a neighborhood weekly newspaper. It was to cover some of the neighborhood news that was not being shared in the daily city newspaper. We talked the Church out of an old mimeograph machine that was waiting further assignments in a supply closet. We then bought three 8×10 yellow legal pads, found three ball pens that were donated by a local funeral home and we were off to find the next news scoop in the neighborhood.
A lost cat, a story about mysteriously over turned trash cans and an undercover story about the local barber were our lead items for our first edition. The cat wandered home and the 7 year old perpetrator of the trash can mystery was caught before the initial printing hit the street. However we were not deterred. We printed 25 three page additions selling for 15 cents and available for reading at your leisure. In a matter of no time we were sold out, thanks in part to sympathetic parents and grandparents. Also, the undercover story about Gentlemen’s magazines being available for viewing at the local barber shop was starting to get some traction. It seems that the tradition of having magazines to read while waiting one’s turn for the bi-monthly trim was considerably enhanced by the availability of Playboy and other relevant magazines of the sort. These magazines were ostensibly available only to adult customers while they waited. If you were 14 , the trick to gain access to the off limits literature was a matter of positioning. Upon entering the shop it was necessary to position yourself next to a man enjoying the pictures while passing the time. When his turn was announced, most often the magazine was left laying in the seat that he had just vacated. It was then time to casually cover the adult periodical with the current issue of Life magazine and slowly pick both up without being noticed. With practice this trick could give you many moments of exhilaration until your name was called for the next haircut. Unfortunately our story made it’s way , second-handed ,to the Methodist pastor who got his flat-top trimmed at our barber shop. A timely discussion with the Barber ended our foray into the world of adult literature for the time being, much to the chagrin of my buddies. My excuse at the Monday night Scout Meeting was that the story was an exercise in investigative journalism. I found out very quickly that the expression of a free press does not make one as popular as I had imagined in my dreams.
I was lucky to have good parents, but unlucky to be born first. There was no handbook for parenting and by and large my parents were not prepared for my personality.
They certainly were not prepared for the cultural changes that growing up in the sixties brought along. My father was the quintessential Dad. He was my coach, mentor, and role model but he was never my friend. We didn’t have long talks about life or how it was going to work out. He was busy moving up the corporate ladder and trying to pay the bills for an ever expanding family which eventually included five kids. At Church he was an usher, which meant he seldom sat with the family. In Boy Scouts, he was the Scout Master which meant individual attention was out of the question. At home, he was usually asleep on the sofa, most nights by 9:00 pm.
From the time I was eleven, I found things to do that kept me away from home. First, it was a morning newspaper route, seven days a week. I was up and out of the house by 4:30 every morning, home for breakfast by 6:30 and off to school by 7:00. After school was athletics. Football, Basketball, and Track, every season was covered. On the weekends were Sock Hops. Boy, did I look forward those, even though I didn’t know how to dance, neither did anyone else. During the summers, after breakfast, I would mount my bicycle and head out for the day, returning only to attend to obligatory chores around the house. Toting out the clinkers from the coal furnace in the basement in the winter, mowing grass in the summer, and carrying out the trash to the alley were some of the mundane tasks that were my responsibilities. Some of my friends did not have daily responsibilities, but then, they were not the recipients of a weekly allowance. This stipend was a source of hot debate occasionally, when it was withheld, due to non-performance of a certain task.
Looking back, the responsibility of daily tasks and the weight of disappointment that non-performance carried with it, has stuck with me my whole life. If I did not perform my assigned role, my parents would be disappointed and be there to hold me accountable. Accountability is now one of my strongest character traits. If I didn’t get up to deliver the newspaper, no one else would be there to perform the task. There was no option to neglect to perform your duty. According to my Dad, I signed up and it was my responsibility, period. He was right, and I have never regretted accepting responsibility. The sixties turned out to be pretty strict, but it was nothing like growing up in the Depression like my parents did.
What fun it was growing up in our neighborhood. There was always someone hanging out on their front porch looking for something to do. Like a game of marbles.
Shooting marbles was a talent that most 10 year old boys took a great deal of pride in. Most marble collections were kept in a draw string bag and hug at the ready from the handle bars of your bike. These collections would generally consist of a couple of shooters. These were the ones that were usually chipped and occasionally made of steel. These were known logically as , Steelies. The rest of the bag contained the most beautiful ones, known as “cat’s eyes”. So known because the center section of the clear glass resembled the eye of the family pet feline. They came in varying sizes and colors and had generally been won by the owner in previous matches. These beauties were the object of much affection and were coveted by opposing players.
Generally, Girls did not participate in shooting marbles. It must of had something to do with lowering themselves to the boys level to participate in what usually took place in the dirt. That was the only place to draw a ring with which to determine a boundary. The object was simple, each player took turns using his shooter to attempt to knock the opposing players marbles out of the ring with one shot. Once accomplished, the marble then belonged to the player who had performed the feat. Many argumenta and an occasional fist fight would arise as to the validity of one’s shot. Mostly though, it was, “to the victor goes the spoils” type of arrangement, with promises for a rematch in the days to come. A game of marbles could break out at any time and the least likely of places. I once saw an impromptu session at an outdoor wedding. All that was needed was some ground, two bags of marbles and preferably some spectators to attest to your skill at the game. It could last for one round or go on long into the afternoon. It was helpful to arrive at the rules of longevity at the outset of the game so as not to be labeled a quitter. This rule was especially applicable when you were the recipient of a few new precious cat’s eyes. Once the opposing player was wiped out of marbles there was a moment of triumph as the winner counted out his new acquisitions. Humility was the best option here because tomorrow you could very well be on the losing end. Sore losers could easily find themselves without a rematch. Many an evening was passed washing and polishing one’s marbles for the prospect of another acquisition for the following day. It has never occurred to me until now but I assume this is where the term meaning going wacky was known as “Losing your Marbles”.
My little brother was born when I was 20 months old and I never again had a room alone to sleep in. I guess that was the beginning of one of life’s greatest lessons, sharing. To give up one’s privacy at such an early age had it’s benefits. As we got older Mom would always ask us things like , “who broke the lamp or who left the butter out?”. Looking back on those days growing up, I remember how convenient it was to have someone to blame things on. This was especially handy when my little brother was just beginning to walk but not yet in full command of the English language. It also helped that he was born with this eternally perplexed look on his face. It was hard to tell if his features belied a look of guilt, or amazement that I had just let him take the fall for the broken lamp. Nonetheless, he was handy to have around on occasion.
With the addition of another brother, 5 years later, it became readily apparent that we were going to be stuck with each other for the duration, so we kind of accepted our fate. Besides, he never did have a choice, he was stuck in the middle forever. His privacy was forfeited at birth as admission into the family. He became my scapegoat, and I became his protector. Bicycles were our portal to the adventures of the day and for many years to come.
As far back as I can remember, I was fascinated and a little scared of girls, It was more than a little fascination, I liked being around them. Fortunately I grew tall quickly and I paid close attention to my hair. I found these two things an attribute when attempting to get close to a cute girl. Unlike guys, who tended to hang out with only one other buddy, girls moved about in gaggles or clumps. This was often an insurmountable roadblock in getting through to one’s desired target. With the benefit of age, I realized this was by design, but when you are fourteen and unable to control your hormones or verbal acuity, it was terribly frustrating. So, as often was the case, I was left alone on my bike with my thoughts and desires.
Wednesday night Church was a great help in learning how to navigate co-educational waters. I don’t remember much about weekly lessons, but I learned quickly that grabbing a seat next to the girl of my choice, was accomplished easier, by showing up early for the meeting. I think this is where my life long affinity for always being on time , began.
Getting the seat and getting the attention proved , many times, to be two separate tasks. Cologne seemed to help, or at least it didn’t hurt, and I still use it every day. Mostly, I didn’t want to talk, I just wanted to touch. Mostly, the girls just wanted to talk and did not want to be touched. So , this was my dilemma, how to get past talking so we could get on to touching.
For sure, it was not going to happen at Wednesday Night Church. However, it might happen if I could muster up the courage to ask the one question that was sure to illicit a negative response, “can I walk you home?” It took weeks of practice in front of the mirror in my bedroom to perfect this seemingly off the cuff inquiry. When the stars finally lined up and the question came out in what sounded like a succession of burps, the intended recipient just starred at me for about two minutes and then ran to the safety of her gaggle. Having been prepared for a negative response, I had not factored in any preparation for no response. The whole situation was not assuaged by my best buddy as we were walking home. “Boy did you look stupid” he assured me. I hardly heard him, I was thinking ahead to school in the morning. How was I going to handle that? As it turned out, my reputation got to school before I did. The guys thought I was cool and the girls, well, they just thought I was tall with nice hair.
Growing up in the early sixties was not going to be easy, but I was not going to give up.
