PITTSBURGH, Penn. - Somewhere in Cheryl Towers' crates boxes and assorted storage devices, she came across this issue of The Trojan, which features Class of '66 member Chris Henderson on the cover with Lyon Evans, Class of '65, I believe. Chris was going to be taking over as managing editor, Lyon was going to be the editor in chief.
I remember Lyon writing some pretty pithy (pithy, pi-thy, I said) editorials about different things, pithy enough that he got in some trouble and there were some rumblings about censorship.
The power of the press, even in 1964.
Chris was the editor in chief the year I worked on the paper (senior year) and had the whole system down pat. I read somewhere - maybe on the discussion list - that someone believes Chris is a judge, in Maryland.
Judge Henderson! That would be fun to track down so we could tell his local judicial council about his high school misdeeds. Hmmm... did he have any?
Maybe we should take discussion of misdeeds to the discussion list on Yahoo?
Nah. If you have any information about Justice Henderson's whereabouts - or some information about his wild life of youthful indiscretions - pass them along to me.
After all, I'm a journalist! I can keep a secret.
If I want to.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Friday, June 17, 2005
A long way from the Trojan newspaper
SAN FRANCISCO, Calif. - Last evening I spent a couple of Merlot-filled hours at John's Grill, a saloon that figures prominently in the Dashiell Hammett book The Maltese Falcon, which was made into a great movie with Humphrey Bogart. It was after a long day of reporting and writing that included a rubber-chicken lunch listening to an assistant U.S. attorney general regaling a roomful of CPAs about how her tax division was kicking butt in finding tax cheats.
Her language was sufficiently provocative that I was able to write a story in the one-hour I had to get it to my Washington D.C. editors at BNA, Inc. I haven't had to move that fast in years. In about an hour, I get to do a repeat when the head of the entire IRS will be speaking to the same group. I'm told he's really great for a few soundbites and the CPAs are sharpening their pencils to nail him with some good questions, which I won't understand probably.
But as I was reading over some of the postings on the SWCS Yahoo discussion list, I was reminded of humble journalistic beginnings, in which I thought having to write 200 words about a football game for the Trojan was a massive undertaking. A sports story for Chrissakes! Who won, who lost, who scored and did it rain?
The Eavesdroppers, co-authored with John Rupp, was a lot more fun, but it was pretty intimidating to write, too. Even if we had a whole month to put a column together.
It's a long way from that classroom with Calvin Hanson reading out of an ancient journalism text to me sitting on the 13th floor of a hotel in a state that has had four significant earthquakes in the last few days.
13th floor? Earthquakes?
Calvin Hanson might appreciate the humor. It's hard to say because he laughed exactly once in our Trojan class our entire senior year. He never laughed at what we wrote in Eavesdroppers.
Her language was sufficiently provocative that I was able to write a story in the one-hour I had to get it to my Washington D.C. editors at BNA, Inc. I haven't had to move that fast in years. In about an hour, I get to do a repeat when the head of the entire IRS will be speaking to the same group. I'm told he's really great for a few soundbites and the CPAs are sharpening their pencils to nail him with some good questions, which I won't understand probably.
But as I was reading over some of the postings on the SWCS Yahoo discussion list, I was reminded of humble journalistic beginnings, in which I thought having to write 200 words about a football game for the Trojan was a massive undertaking. A sports story for Chrissakes! Who won, who lost, who scored and did it rain?
The Eavesdroppers, co-authored with John Rupp, was a lot more fun, but it was pretty intimidating to write, too. Even if we had a whole month to put a column together.
It's a long way from that classroom with Calvin Hanson reading out of an ancient journalism text to me sitting on the 13th floor of a hotel in a state that has had four significant earthquakes in the last few days.
13th floor? Earthquakes?
Calvin Hanson might appreciate the humor. It's hard to say because he laughed exactly once in our Trojan class our entire senior year. He never laughed at what we wrote in Eavesdroppers.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Miss Alexander's class - Second Grade
LAKEWOOD, N.Y. - The scary thing about this photo was recognizing Doug Pillsbury in the front row, second from the left and simultaneously seeing him in the SWCS 1966 yearbook, wedged neatly between Jon Ostrander and Susan Post.
Note that I said Susan Post. When we were in high school, I remember she was Sue though her nickname under her photo says her nickname was Post. Go figure.
I remember her two old brothers, Bill and Bob. Bill, the eldest was a nice guy, graduated about 1963. Bob was not-so-nice (at least to some members of the Class of '66, myself included). He graduated in 65, I think. I didn't get him a graduation present.
But Doug Pillsbury! Pills! I don't remember him attending the two reunions we had, but I do remember him from gym class, probably his least favorite time of the school day, but it was required.
Doug Pillsbury just wasn't particularly interested in any of the silly games we played, especially the crueler ones like dodge ball. He took part, getting chosen near last for most teams and in one historic softball game on those lower fields, got beaned by a fly ball when he wasn't looking.
Today, he likely the president of a corporation somewhere or Larry Ellison's secret partner in Oracle.
But in second grade, there he sits next to Sally Smith, I believe. There's a lot of recognizable folks in this picture, Craig Young and Jack Nobbs in the back row, left, I'm pretty sure.
This photo comes to us courtesy of CeeJay who is going through some boxes of photos and promises more.
Does anyone have any more photos from our reunions? Or how about any photos from high school, junior high, or elementary school? I have a box of photos in my storage room that I haven't opened in years that might get dragged out this weekend.
And I'm going to go back through my emails to make sure I haven't missed posting any sent to me. If you sent me a photo and I didn't post it, scream! (electronically, that is) to remind me.
I have the memory of twig, a slender twig at that.
Which is a good segue to today's song:
Note that I said Susan Post. When we were in high school, I remember she was Sue though her nickname under her photo says her nickname was Post. Go figure.
I remember her two old brothers, Bill and Bob. Bill, the eldest was a nice guy, graduated about 1963. Bob was not-so-nice (at least to some members of the Class of '66, myself included). He graduated in 65, I think. I didn't get him a graduation present.
But Doug Pillsbury! Pills! I don't remember him attending the two reunions we had, but I do remember him from gym class, probably his least favorite time of the school day, but it was required.
Doug Pillsbury just wasn't particularly interested in any of the silly games we played, especially the crueler ones like dodge ball. He took part, getting chosen near last for most teams and in one historic softball game on those lower fields, got beaned by a fly ball when he wasn't looking.
Today, he likely the president of a corporation somewhere or Larry Ellison's secret partner in Oracle.
But in second grade, there he sits next to Sally Smith, I believe. There's a lot of recognizable folks in this picture, Craig Young and Jack Nobbs in the back row, left, I'm pretty sure.
This photo comes to us courtesy of CeeJay who is going through some boxes of photos and promises more.
Does anyone have any more photos from our reunions? Or how about any photos from high school, junior high, or elementary school? I have a box of photos in my storage room that I haven't opened in years that might get dragged out this weekend.
And I'm going to go back through my emails to make sure I haven't missed posting any sent to me. If you sent me a photo and I didn't post it, scream! (electronically, that is) to remind me.
I have the memory of twig, a slender twig at that.
Which is a good segue to today's song:
I Remember You
sung by Frank Ifield
sung by Frank Ifield
I remember you
You're the one that made my dreams come true
Just a few kisses ago
I remember you
You're the one who said I love you too
Yes I do
Didn't you know
I remember too, a distant bell
And stars that fell, like the rain
Out of the blue
When my life is through
And the angels ask me to recall
The thril of them all
Then I will tell them I remember
Tell them I remember
Tell them I remember you
I remember too, a distant bell
And stars that fell, like the rain
Out of the blue
When my life is through
And the angels ask me to recall
The thrill of them all
Then I will tell them I remember
Tell them I remember
Tell them I remember you
Words by Johnny Mercer, Music by Victor Schertzinger
You're the one that made my dreams come true
Just a few kisses ago
I remember you
You're the one who said I love you too
Yes I do
Didn't you know
I remember too, a distant bell
And stars that fell, like the rain
Out of the blue
When my life is through
And the angels ask me to recall
The thril of them all
Then I will tell them I remember
Tell them I remember
Tell them I remember you
I remember too, a distant bell
And stars that fell, like the rain
Out of the blue
When my life is through
And the angels ask me to recall
The thrill of them all
Then I will tell them I remember
Tell them I remember
Tell them I remember you
Words by Johnny Mercer, Music by Victor Schertzinger
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
She almost got me through chemistry
ELEVENTH GRADE, SWCS - It wasn't that I couldn't learn chemistry, it was just that, well, I had this thing about carrying textbooks home.
I mean, why carry the damn things when I never opened them? I was usually so beat from wrestling in the winter, and track in the spring, that the idea of opening a book at my house was out of the question. (In the fall, I was just too lazy to carry books, also. Just ask Sue Guertin Chandler...)
Hence, I failed both Math 11 and Chemistry junior year.
But this posting isn't to detail my shortcomings. Even cyberspace isn't ready for that litany. But I put Carol Wright in today's spotlight because she came soooo close to getting me through chemistry. We sat in the back of Henry Weiss's class (if ever there was a role model for a mad scientist, it was Hank). And sometime in the spring, Carol started giving me some coaching, which I gladly accepted because I was headed to summer school like an Erie Lackawanna freight out of control.
The only thing I remember clearly was her laughing at my answers, but always, always being very patient. My scores improved in the tests in class and for a brief and shining moment (I'm allowed one cornball cliche per blog. Check the rules, please.), for one brief and shining moment I thought I would be able to pass the regents exam.
I missed it by one point.
Mille fois merde!
I saw Carol at the 20th reunion, made a few atomic jokes and moved back to the bar when I spent way too much time that night. But one night several years later I had a frightening nightmare that she was in some kind of trouble. I wrote her a letter to the address that was listed with our reunion materials but never heard back from her. The letter might have been frankly a little bit, well, weird, I suppose. (I know, you can't imagine that.)
Her chemistry coaching paid off for me. I took the class in summer school at Chautaqua, sitting next to a young lady named Nancy Patchen (another story). I breezed through the class and got at 85 on the regents test - without ever taking the textbook home on the back of my Yamaha.
So today's song? Whaddya think? Come on!
It's "Oh Carol," of course.
I mean, why carry the damn things when I never opened them? I was usually so beat from wrestling in the winter, and track in the spring, that the idea of opening a book at my house was out of the question. (In the fall, I was just too lazy to carry books, also. Just ask Sue Guertin Chandler...)
Hence, I failed both Math 11 and Chemistry junior year.
But this posting isn't to detail my shortcomings. Even cyberspace isn't ready for that litany. But I put Carol Wright in today's spotlight because she came soooo close to getting me through chemistry. We sat in the back of Henry Weiss's class (if ever there was a role model for a mad scientist, it was Hank). And sometime in the spring, Carol started giving me some coaching, which I gladly accepted because I was headed to summer school like an Erie Lackawanna freight out of control.
The only thing I remember clearly was her laughing at my answers, but always, always being very patient. My scores improved in the tests in class and for a brief and shining moment (I'm allowed one cornball cliche per blog. Check the rules, please.), for one brief and shining moment I thought I would be able to pass the regents exam.
I missed it by one point.
Mille fois merde!
I saw Carol at the 20th reunion, made a few atomic jokes and moved back to the bar when I spent way too much time that night. But one night several years later I had a frightening nightmare that she was in some kind of trouble. I wrote her a letter to the address that was listed with our reunion materials but never heard back from her. The letter might have been frankly a little bit, well, weird, I suppose. (I know, you can't imagine that.)
Her chemistry coaching paid off for me. I took the class in summer school at Chautaqua, sitting next to a young lady named Nancy Patchen (another story). I breezed through the class and got at 85 on the regents test - without ever taking the textbook home on the back of my Yamaha.
So today's song? Whaddya think? Come on!
It's "Oh Carol," of course.
Oh Carol
by Neil Sedaka
Oh! Carol!
I am but a fool
darling i love you
though you treat me cruel
You hurt me
and you make me cry
but if you leave me
I will surely die
Darling, there will never be another
'cause i love you so
don't ever leave me
say you'll never go
I will always treat you as my sweet heart
no matter what you do
oh! Soriya
i'm so in love with you
Darling, there will never be another
'cause i love you so
don't ever leave me
say you'll never go
I will always treat you as my sweet heart
no matter what you do
oh! Carol!
I'm so in love with you
by Neil Sedaka
Oh! Carol!
I am but a fool
darling i love you
though you treat me cruel
You hurt me
and you make me cry
but if you leave me
I will surely die
Darling, there will never be another
'cause i love you so
don't ever leave me
say you'll never go
I will always treat you as my sweet heart
no matter what you do
oh! Soriya
i'm so in love with you
Darling, there will never be another
'cause i love you so
don't ever leave me
say you'll never go
I will always treat you as my sweet heart
no matter what you do
oh! Carol!
I'm so in love with you
Monday, June 13, 2005
In the front row, drummer Dick Popowski
LAKEWOOD, N.Y. - The photos keep coming out and it's great.
Today's is courtesy of CeeJay, who, after the posting about bad hair days, wanted to reveal a different do than what she had in her graduation picture which I posted.
It's quite stylish (in the back row).
There's some of the usual suspects in this photo, which I will post on the Yahoo site and also mail directly to anyone who wants the gazillion megapixel version.
But what ever happened to Dick Popowski?
The last time I saw him, I was about 19 and slamming a few lime coolers at the Hideaway on Fairmount Avenue. He came in, all flaps up and full of wisecracks (as usual), and told me arguably the dirtiest joke I have ever heard. Ever.
Forget it. I'm not telling it here. My daughter looks at this site sometimes for Godsakes.
But I never heard another word about him, and he obviously didn't graduate with us, or if he did, he sure missed the SWCS yearbook.
Maybe we should start a list of those folks who were with us and them went off to other schools or who-knows where. We already have heard from Jackie Hamm (who is on the mailing list) and I think there might be a couple of others also getting our emails, to whom I apologize for not remembering right now.
But here's a partial list of the disappeared, and one tidbit about where someone is:
Dick Popowski
David Hamilton
Douglas Brandow
Ted Capella
Nancy Anderson
Jim Barton
Ed Potter
Dan Ryan
Jim Anderson
and ???
The mystery guest whose whereabouts I know (though I lost his email and contact information in the Great Computer Crash of April 2005) is Gary Shenkle.
Shenkle was with us until about the end of freshman year when he moved to Wallingford, Conn. We wrote back and forth exactly twice. And then poof, like teenagers with the attention span of a twig, we stopped writing.
Two years ago, through Classmates.com, I received an email from Gary who is working as an attorney in Washington state after giving up a dental practice.
Yup, Gary Shenkle and here's the kicker. For awhile, he was in a dental practice with Jim Burk, Class of '64 SWCS, and arguably the toughest guy in school. If Burk wasn't the toughest guy, he fooled a lot of us.
Gary hasn't told me why he left that practice, but if I ever get my old emails off the old computer, I'll put him on our list and see if I can get him to tell us a Jim Burk tale. Burk's 59 by now, he can't be that scary.
Right?
Today's is courtesy of CeeJay, who, after the posting about bad hair days, wanted to reveal a different do than what she had in her graduation picture which I posted.
It's quite stylish (in the back row).
There's some of the usual suspects in this photo, which I will post on the Yahoo site and also mail directly to anyone who wants the gazillion megapixel version.
But what ever happened to Dick Popowski?
The last time I saw him, I was about 19 and slamming a few lime coolers at the Hideaway on Fairmount Avenue. He came in, all flaps up and full of wisecracks (as usual), and told me arguably the dirtiest joke I have ever heard. Ever.
Forget it. I'm not telling it here. My daughter looks at this site sometimes for Godsakes.
But I never heard another word about him, and he obviously didn't graduate with us, or if he did, he sure missed the SWCS yearbook.
Maybe we should start a list of those folks who were with us and them went off to other schools or who-knows where. We already have heard from Jackie Hamm (who is on the mailing list) and I think there might be a couple of others also getting our emails, to whom I apologize for not remembering right now.
But here's a partial list of the disappeared, and one tidbit about where someone is:
Dick Popowski
David Hamilton
Douglas Brandow
Ted Capella
Nancy Anderson
Jim Barton
Ed Potter
Dan Ryan
Jim Anderson
and ???
The mystery guest whose whereabouts I know (though I lost his email and contact information in the Great Computer Crash of April 2005) is Gary Shenkle.
Shenkle was with us until about the end of freshman year when he moved to Wallingford, Conn. We wrote back and forth exactly twice. And then poof, like teenagers with the attention span of a twig, we stopped writing.
Two years ago, through Classmates.com, I received an email from Gary who is working as an attorney in Washington state after giving up a dental practice.
Yup, Gary Shenkle and here's the kicker. For awhile, he was in a dental practice with Jim Burk, Class of '64 SWCS, and arguably the toughest guy in school. If Burk wasn't the toughest guy, he fooled a lot of us.
Gary hasn't told me why he left that practice, but if I ever get my old emails off the old computer, I'll put him on our list and see if I can get him to tell us a Jim Burk tale. Burk's 59 by now, he can't be that scary.
Right?
Sunday, June 12, 2005
The one guy who Moose worried about
SWCS, Second Floor - I never really got to know Harold T. "Doss" Johnson when we were students in high school.
He taught special education, though exactly how special the students were is missing from our yearbook - at least in my thumbing through the pages.
I did get to know "Doss" after graduation, when I went to work at Lakewood Beach as a lifeguard. My cousin Gordy had worked for Doss and recommended me for the job, no doubt because my mother coerced him. (Gordy "Mr. Puls," taught junior high math for a few years at SWCS as we were getting ready to graduate and it was embarassing to run into Gordo in the hall).
It wasn't until I started the job that I realized that Doss was Pam Johnson's dad! (Pam Johnson from Lakewood.) She showed up at the beach one day and luckily I didn't start bitching about Doss right away.
If you came to the beach at all those first few years after we graduated, you would see the Doss-mobile - a metallic blue Corvair convertible with a small puddle of oil underneath it. It made trips up the hill to the American Legion several times a day so Doss could go 'check the mail.' He was the second guy I worked for who was a compulsive mail-checker. The other one was Dick Merleau (sp?) who owned Maple Bay Marina and had the nickname Martini Charley.
But Doss ran the beach with a stern hand and gave us lifeguards more authority than we probably should have had. I was a pretty skinny specimen to be a lifeguard that first year - though I did my share of pulling out people who couldn't swim. But the other part of lifeguarding - being able to order people to do things (or not do things) was better handled by guys like Dan Harp who intimidated people by sheer bulk.
When I had my first serious run-in with someone from (Gasp!) Jamestown, a fellow who outweighed me by at least 30 pounds and was probably three or four inches taller, Doss came out as I was about to get my head handed to me and said, "You forgot your wrench, Fitz." Then he handed me a shiny 14-inch Crescent wrench, one of several we used to put up the derrick and slide every spring.
His next words:
"If this guy takes a swing at you, hit him in the head with it."
Holy crap!
I didn't have to even raise the wrench, because a moment later - seeing that I was probably going to be required to demonstrate my forehand - Doss ordered my antagonist to haul his ass out of Lakewood Beach and never come back. For a few seconds, while this guy from Jamestown gave Doss the hard stare, I was afraid Doss was going to order me to whack him like a scene from Gladiator.
The guy left - mad and embarassed - and broke the radio antenna on the Doss-mobile on his way up the hill.
Although that was a tense moment in my lifeguard history, a year or so later I did something that really made my life flash before my eyes in a very different way.
Mr. Anderson, Mr. Gunnard Anderson from SWCS, a science teacher who many of us had in 7th or 8th grade, came to work for the Lakewood Recreation Department and would wander into the beach house from time to time to bullshit with Doss or flirt with the female lifeguards, the cashier and the gazillion other cute things wandering around in bathing suits. (It was a beach, remember?)
And Doss, of course, always called Mr. Anderson, Mr. Gunnard Anderson by the familiar sobriquet "Gunny."
Oh no!
Oh yes!
One day, it just came out of my mouth, a short sentence that a few years before would've made a life sentence at Guantanamo seem like a good alternative:
"Hey Gunny, how the hell ya doin' today?"
My fellow lifeguards dove for cover as if I had just told a gang of Hell's Angels that their motorcycles were shit and their women ugly.
But Mr. Anderson, Mr. Gunnard Anderson, Gunny Anderson just looked at me with shock and said, "Well, just fine, Mike. Just fine. How the hell are you doing?"
Breathe, breathe, breathe...
Lakewood Beach touched a lot of the Class of '66 in a lot of different ways and I'm sad to report that the slide and derrick that I built each spring (and tore down each fall) was taken out of service at least 20 years ago - no doubt the victim of a village nervous about liability.
Not a week went by that we didn't end up patching up kids who got hurt on the slide, and several times we got to borrow the Doss-mobile to drive kids to the WCA Hospital to get a few stiches.
We knew one thing when we drove to WCA: one drop of blood on the Doss-mobile seats and our passenger wouldn't be the only one who would need stitches.
Even if Gunny was your buddy.
He taught special education, though exactly how special the students were is missing from our yearbook - at least in my thumbing through the pages.
I did get to know "Doss" after graduation, when I went to work at Lakewood Beach as a lifeguard. My cousin Gordy had worked for Doss and recommended me for the job, no doubt because my mother coerced him. (Gordy "Mr. Puls," taught junior high math for a few years at SWCS as we were getting ready to graduate and it was embarassing to run into Gordo in the hall).
It wasn't until I started the job that I realized that Doss was Pam Johnson's dad! (Pam Johnson from Lakewood.) She showed up at the beach one day and luckily I didn't start bitching about Doss right away.
If you came to the beach at all those first few years after we graduated, you would see the Doss-mobile - a metallic blue Corvair convertible with a small puddle of oil underneath it. It made trips up the hill to the American Legion several times a day so Doss could go 'check the mail.' He was the second guy I worked for who was a compulsive mail-checker. The other one was Dick Merleau (sp?) who owned Maple Bay Marina and had the nickname Martini Charley.
But Doss ran the beach with a stern hand and gave us lifeguards more authority than we probably should have had. I was a pretty skinny specimen to be a lifeguard that first year - though I did my share of pulling out people who couldn't swim. But the other part of lifeguarding - being able to order people to do things (or not do things) was better handled by guys like Dan Harp who intimidated people by sheer bulk.
When I had my first serious run-in with someone from (Gasp!) Jamestown, a fellow who outweighed me by at least 30 pounds and was probably three or four inches taller, Doss came out as I was about to get my head handed to me and said, "You forgot your wrench, Fitz." Then he handed me a shiny 14-inch Crescent wrench, one of several we used to put up the derrick and slide every spring.
His next words:
"If this guy takes a swing at you, hit him in the head with it."
Holy crap!
I didn't have to even raise the wrench, because a moment later - seeing that I was probably going to be required to demonstrate my forehand - Doss ordered my antagonist to haul his ass out of Lakewood Beach and never come back. For a few seconds, while this guy from Jamestown gave Doss the hard stare, I was afraid Doss was going to order me to whack him like a scene from Gladiator.
The guy left - mad and embarassed - and broke the radio antenna on the Doss-mobile on his way up the hill.
Although that was a tense moment in my lifeguard history, a year or so later I did something that really made my life flash before my eyes in a very different way.
Mr. Anderson, Mr. Gunnard Anderson from SWCS, a science teacher who many of us had in 7th or 8th grade, came to work for the Lakewood Recreation Department and would wander into the beach house from time to time to bullshit with Doss or flirt with the female lifeguards, the cashier and the gazillion other cute things wandering around in bathing suits. (It was a beach, remember?)
And Doss, of course, always called Mr. Anderson, Mr. Gunnard Anderson by the familiar sobriquet "Gunny."
Oh no!
Oh yes!
One day, it just came out of my mouth, a short sentence that a few years before would've made a life sentence at Guantanamo seem like a good alternative:
"Hey Gunny, how the hell ya doin' today?"
My fellow lifeguards dove for cover as if I had just told a gang of Hell's Angels that their motorcycles were shit and their women ugly.
But Mr. Anderson, Mr. Gunnard Anderson, Gunny Anderson just looked at me with shock and said, "Well, just fine, Mike. Just fine. How the hell are you doing?"
Breathe, breathe, breathe...
Lakewood Beach touched a lot of the Class of '66 in a lot of different ways and I'm sad to report that the slide and derrick that I built each spring (and tore down each fall) was taken out of service at least 20 years ago - no doubt the victim of a village nervous about liability.
Not a week went by that we didn't end up patching up kids who got hurt on the slide, and several times we got to borrow the Doss-mobile to drive kids to the WCA Hospital to get a few stiches.
We knew one thing when we drove to WCA: one drop of blood on the Doss-mobile seats and our passenger wouldn't be the only one who would need stitches.
Even if Gunny was your buddy.
Take a look at Marcia Carlson Hein's blog
SOMEWHERE IN BRITAIN - Marcia Carlson has put up a blog today that should prompt a few memories for everybody.
Me? I read it and decided that while I would love to sit here and reminisce about nearly 40 years ago, my kayak calls me - just like my boat used to call me in the early 1960s. The kayak is a little slower, but hell, so am I.
Work around the house in Lakewood? Ha! We would all go waterskiing and be as far away from our parents as possible.
Check out Marcia's blog at:
Marcia's blog
Me? I read it and decided that while I would love to sit here and reminisce about nearly 40 years ago, my kayak calls me - just like my boat used to call me in the early 1960s. The kayak is a little slower, but hell, so am I.
Work around the house in Lakewood? Ha! We would all go waterskiing and be as far away from our parents as possible.
Check out Marcia's blog at:
Friday, June 10, 2005
A summer of Mamas & Papas and then...
NEW YORK CITY - Right after graduation, I spent the summer at Lakewood Beach, a lifeguard with Dan Harp, my cousin Kathleen McAvoy and Kathy Wood (Dan from the Class of '64, Kathy & Kathy from the Class of '65) and some of the songs from this album were big on the portable radio we kept out on the end of the dock while we watching people struggle swimming.
Sometimes we would start up a little impromptu dancing - which the little kids thought was beyond cool - and at the end, we would toss the little buggers into the lake as their reward.
And they loved it...
But the Mamas & Papas songs really came into my vision when I went to Villanova and hitchhiked to New York City (well, really Greenwich Village) for an adventure. And every bar we went into was playing Mamas & Papa's songs.
We should have called that adventure, "Geeks in New York." Three roommates in tan raincoats, wet shoes and short haircuts who couldn't stop looking up at the tall buildings. One of my roommates was from Arizona and actually hurt his neck looking up so much.
Naturally, we got cheated at every bar (Where's the booze in the drinks?), got approached by hookers (You want how much?) and managed to walk into some neighborhoods where white guys in tan raincoats were either morons or federal agents. We were not associated with the federal government, I assure you.
But to this day, when I hear the song below, I remember Lakewood Beach and the summer of 1966. It might have been the best summer of my life. Well, wait, there was 1974, and last summer wasn't half-bad either.
Hmm...
Here you go kids:
Sometimes we would start up a little impromptu dancing - which the little kids thought was beyond cool - and at the end, we would toss the little buggers into the lake as their reward.
And they loved it...
But the Mamas & Papas songs really came into my vision when I went to Villanova and hitchhiked to New York City (well, really Greenwich Village) for an adventure. And every bar we went into was playing Mamas & Papa's songs.
We should have called that adventure, "Geeks in New York." Three roommates in tan raincoats, wet shoes and short haircuts who couldn't stop looking up at the tall buildings. One of my roommates was from Arizona and actually hurt his neck looking up so much.
Naturally, we got cheated at every bar (Where's the booze in the drinks?), got approached by hookers (You want how much?) and managed to walk into some neighborhoods where white guys in tan raincoats were either morons or federal agents. We were not associated with the federal government, I assure you.
But to this day, when I hear the song below, I remember Lakewood Beach and the summer of 1966. It might have been the best summer of my life. Well, wait, there was 1974, and last summer wasn't half-bad either.
Hmm...
Here you go kids:
I Saw Her Again
by The Mamas and The Papas
I saw her again last night
And you know that I shouldn't
To string her along's just not right
If I couldn't I wouldn't
But what can I do, I'm lonely too
And it makes me feel so good to know
You'll never leave me
I'm in way over my head
Now she thinks that I love her
Because that's what I said
Though I never think of her
But what can I do, I'm lonely too
And it makes me feel so good to know
You'll never leave me
Every time I see that girl
You know I wanna lay down and die
But I really need that girl
Don't know why I'm livin' a lie
It makes me wanna cry
I saw her again last night
And you know that I shouldn't
To string her along's just not right
If I couldn't I wouldn't
But what can I do, I'm lonely too
And it makes me feel so good to know
You'll never leave me
------ instrumental break ------
But what can I do, I'm lonely too
And it makes me feel so good to know
You'll never leave me
Every time I see that girl
You know I wanna lay down and die
But I really need that girl
Don't know why I'm livin' a lie
It makes me wanna cry
I saw her again last night
And you know that I shouldn't
To string her along's just not right
If I couldn't I wouldn't
I'm in way over my head
Now she thinks that I love her
Because that's what I said
Though I never think of her
by The Mamas and The Papas
I saw her again last night
And you know that I shouldn't
To string her along's just not right
If I couldn't I wouldn't
But what can I do, I'm lonely too
And it makes me feel so good to know
You'll never leave me
I'm in way over my head
Now she thinks that I love her
Because that's what I said
Though I never think of her
But what can I do, I'm lonely too
And it makes me feel so good to know
You'll never leave me
Every time I see that girl
You know I wanna lay down and die
But I really need that girl
Don't know why I'm livin' a lie
It makes me wanna cry
I saw her again last night
And you know that I shouldn't
To string her along's just not right
If I couldn't I wouldn't
But what can I do, I'm lonely too
And it makes me feel so good to know
You'll never leave me
------ instrumental break ------
But what can I do, I'm lonely too
And it makes me feel so good to know
You'll never leave me
Every time I see that girl
You know I wanna lay down and die
But I really need that girl
Don't know why I'm livin' a lie
It makes me wanna cry
I saw her again last night
And you know that I shouldn't
To string her along's just not right
If I couldn't I wouldn't
I'm in way over my head
Now she thinks that I love her
Because that's what I said
Though I never think of her
Thursday, June 09, 2005
From the June 9 Jamestown Post-Journal
JAMESTOWN, N.Y. - Newspaper photographers just love those wreckers. And in this case it being our old elementary school, the readership is guaranteed. Think how many people went through that school. Some of our classmate's parents graduated from it when it was a high school.
It seems like it's taking a long time to knock the old barn down. It reminds me of California, where buildings get knocked down to put new ones in their place because of new earthquake standards. Can't have the old buildings falling down.
And they can't topple them when they hit them with the wrecking ball! (Kind of like the fillings in my teeth from 1960 - courtesy of Dr. Joseph Griffo. Never, never let a dentist take out your old fillings. The ones I had removed about 10 years ago have to be replaced every three or four years. The ones from Joe Griffo are solid as, well, rocks.)
This photo, a grab shot of the front page of the Jamestown Post-Journal comes via Sue Siecker who sent the whole newspaper to me as a pdf file.
I started reading other sections of the newspaper and it's not as bad a rag as it was when we were growing up and it was publishing news about our speeding tickets and other escapades.
I still have the clipping somewhere from when I got tagged for reckless driving on my Yamaha 80 motorcycle - at night. I was speeding and passed three cars on a double solid line. Too bad I didn't look behind me and see Nels Carlson in the Lakewood police car.
He was soooo made at me - not for speeding - but because he knew that he had to give me a ticket and my mother would give him hell the next time she saw him.
He did, and she did and I paid a $45 fine. It seemed like a fortune on my parttime Loblaw's bag-boy salary.
On another, more musical topic:
Marcia Carlson Hein put a notice up here on the blog trying to find Gloria by The Shadows of Knight. And Dave Carlson responded with some sage advice about copyrights. But for folks looking for that song - or the one I'm listing today at the end of the blog - Apple's ITunes has them both.
Today's song? This one you will know the tune for, I'm sure. Boy does it bring back some memories from one summer at Lakewood Beach.
Sigh...
----------------
It seems like it's taking a long time to knock the old barn down. It reminds me of California, where buildings get knocked down to put new ones in their place because of new earthquake standards. Can't have the old buildings falling down.
And they can't topple them when they hit them with the wrecking ball! (Kind of like the fillings in my teeth from 1960 - courtesy of Dr. Joseph Griffo. Never, never let a dentist take out your old fillings. The ones I had removed about 10 years ago have to be replaced every three or four years. The ones from Joe Griffo are solid as, well, rocks.)
This photo, a grab shot of the front page of the Jamestown Post-Journal comes via Sue Siecker who sent the whole newspaper to me as a pdf file.
I started reading other sections of the newspaper and it's not as bad a rag as it was when we were growing up and it was publishing news about our speeding tickets and other escapades.
I still have the clipping somewhere from when I got tagged for reckless driving on my Yamaha 80 motorcycle - at night. I was speeding and passed three cars on a double solid line. Too bad I didn't look behind me and see Nels Carlson in the Lakewood police car.
He was soooo made at me - not for speeding - but because he knew that he had to give me a ticket and my mother would give him hell the next time she saw him.
He did, and she did and I paid a $45 fine. It seemed like a fortune on my parttime Loblaw's bag-boy salary.
On another, more musical topic:
Marcia Carlson Hein put a notice up here on the blog trying to find Gloria by The Shadows of Knight. And Dave Carlson responded with some sage advice about copyrights. But for folks looking for that song - or the one I'm listing today at the end of the blog - Apple's ITunes has them both.
Today's song? This one you will know the tune for, I'm sure. Boy does it bring back some memories from one summer at Lakewood Beach.
Sigh...
----------------
The Sounds of Silence
by Simon and Garfunkel
(words and music by Paul Simon)
Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence
"Fools", said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed
In the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered in the sounds of silence
by Simon and Garfunkel
(words and music by Paul Simon)
Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence
"Fools", said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed
In the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered in the sounds of silence
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
The music of 1966 - and what it brings back
ZIHUATENEJO, MEXICO - A year ago, I was hanging out in a Mexican bar owned by an American named Rick (yeah, just like Rick from Rick's Cafe in Casablanca) where I met a nice cruising family who had an eight-year-old boy, Martin, and a 11-year-old girl named Emily.
Emily wanted to be a writer, so guess what we talked about. But Martin, little Martin, he wanted to be a musician and learn to play the guitar.
These kids were the best argument I've ever seen for getting children out of those penitentaries we call schools and into the world.
Long story short, while Martin's dad and I sat and swilled beer at the bar several afternoons per week. (Ok, maybe it was every day...) Martin took guitar lessons and learned so fast that pretty soon we could recognize the tunes. I swear it wasn't just the Pacifico beer, which does have some pretty astounding mind-altering qualities.
But the kicker came a few weeks before I was to move my boat Sabbatical back up the coast. It was open microphone night and damn, there was little Martin sitting up on the stool, a whole rock band of miscreant musicians from Z-town ready to back him up. Martin and I had talked a lot about 60s rock 'n roll, and one song in particular that I remembered and really liked. I thought I had heard him strumming it out in front of the open air bar where he got his lessons from an off duty bartender who supposedly was somebody famous. I thought I was just hearing the music because of the young girl who tended bar during the day, but, well...
The tune was made famous by The Shadows of Knight, a group that played the song one night at the old Mar-Mar restaurant where legend has it Dan Harp had to hide under the table with several other SWCS folks when a motorcycle gang came in and busted up the bar. No fans of the Shadows were they, apparently.
And when little Martin hit the first chords of "Gloria," it all came back, the whole episode, Dan Harp retelling that story as many times as people asked him about it.
But Martin was good - damn good and pretty soon the whole place was rocking and rolling and dancing and screaming, and Sweet Jesus, what riot we had!
The music, you see, was/is the key (for me at least) to remembering things such as the great Mar-Mar bar crash, dancing at Snug Harbor, crawling out of the Surf Club at 1 a.m. (in search of breakfast!), or those long summers on Lake Chautauqua trying to find some girls silly enough to go waterskiing with us.
For the Class of '66 - and Martin - here's the lyrics to "Gloria," by the Shadows of Knight. See if you can hear the music.
Emily wanted to be a writer, so guess what we talked about. But Martin, little Martin, he wanted to be a musician and learn to play the guitar.
These kids were the best argument I've ever seen for getting children out of those penitentaries we call schools and into the world.
Long story short, while Martin's dad and I sat and swilled beer at the bar several afternoons per week. (Ok, maybe it was every day...) Martin took guitar lessons and learned so fast that pretty soon we could recognize the tunes. I swear it wasn't just the Pacifico beer, which does have some pretty astounding mind-altering qualities.
But the kicker came a few weeks before I was to move my boat Sabbatical back up the coast. It was open microphone night and damn, there was little Martin sitting up on the stool, a whole rock band of miscreant musicians from Z-town ready to back him up. Martin and I had talked a lot about 60s rock 'n roll, and one song in particular that I remembered and really liked. I thought I had heard him strumming it out in front of the open air bar where he got his lessons from an off duty bartender who supposedly was somebody famous. I thought I was just hearing the music because of the young girl who tended bar during the day, but, well...
The tune was made famous by The Shadows of Knight, a group that played the song one night at the old Mar-Mar restaurant where legend has it Dan Harp had to hide under the table with several other SWCS folks when a motorcycle gang came in and busted up the bar. No fans of the Shadows were they, apparently.
And when little Martin hit the first chords of "Gloria," it all came back, the whole episode, Dan Harp retelling that story as many times as people asked him about it.
But Martin was good - damn good and pretty soon the whole place was rocking and rolling and dancing and screaming, and Sweet Jesus, what riot we had!
The music, you see, was/is the key (for me at least) to remembering things such as the great Mar-Mar bar crash, dancing at Snug Harbor, crawling out of the Surf Club at 1 a.m. (in search of breakfast!), or those long summers on Lake Chautauqua trying to find some girls silly enough to go waterskiing with us.
For the Class of '66 - and Martin - here's the lyrics to "Gloria," by the Shadows of Knight. See if you can hear the music.
Gloria
The Shadows of Knight
Like to tell you 'bout my baby
You know she comes round
Just 'bout five feet four
From her head to the ground
Well she comes around here
Just about midnight
She makes me feel so good Lord
Makes me feel alright.
Her name is G-L-O-R-I-A
Gloria, Gloria, Gloria...etc.
Yeah, she comes around here
Just about midnight
Makes me feel so good Lord
Makes me feel alright
Walkin' down my street
Comes up to my house
She knocks upon me door
Makes me feel alright.
Her name is G-L-O-R-I-A
Gloria, Gloria, Gloria...
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Much ado about the hairdo, redux
JAMESTOWN, N.Y. - When Cee Jay first emailed me some time back about the reunion and the website, she referred to this picture.
"Was every day a bad hair day then...and why did it have to be on picture day?"
Well, kind of like Bob Swanson's wild wave, what hair was in 1966 it just was. And I'm no hairstyle critic, but Cee Jay's hair looks pretty good to me in this copy of her yearbook shot.
My own hair? Well, I needed to use more Wildroot, maybe a gallon. (Bob Swanson emailed me to say he thinks he used Wildroot in those days. A photo of him from last summer is up on the discussion group web page. The wave on his head is gone, but Bob looks like he's enjoying the surf anyway.)
So here's an idea - better than karaoke!
With the magic of Adobe Photoshop, we could move some of these hairdos around on people and see what, say, Bob Swanson's wave would look like on my forehead.
How about Cee Jay's doo on say, Cheryl Towers?
Louis Acquisto's hair on Jim Lindell?
Hmmm... that might prove to be a bad hair day for all of us.
So, we're back to karaoke, right?
"Was every day a bad hair day then...and why did it have to be on picture day?"
Well, kind of like Bob Swanson's wild wave, what hair was in 1966 it just was. And I'm no hairstyle critic, but Cee Jay's hair looks pretty good to me in this copy of her yearbook shot.
My own hair? Well, I needed to use more Wildroot, maybe a gallon. (Bob Swanson emailed me to say he thinks he used Wildroot in those days. A photo of him from last summer is up on the discussion group web page. The wave on his head is gone, but Bob looks like he's enjoying the surf anyway.)
So here's an idea - better than karaoke!
With the magic of Adobe Photoshop, we could move some of these hairdos around on people and see what, say, Bob Swanson's wave would look like on my forehead.
How about Cee Jay's doo on say, Cheryl Towers?
Louis Acquisto's hair on Jim Lindell?
Hmmm... that might prove to be a bad hair day for all of us.
So, we're back to karaoke, right?
A wave that you could probably surf on
JAMESTOWN, N.Y. - The yearbook is full of great photos. If you haven't dragged yours out recently, well, grab the bottle of Grey Goose vodka by the neck and hang on tight when you turn the pages.
More than a few people have said, 'My picture is awful' (Right, CeeJay?), but in truth, the photos tell a thousand stories, even the bad ones.
Now today, here's Bob Swanson's entry. In the 20th reunion photo (posted some time ago) he's standing next to me in the back row with Conrad Wilson flanking him on his left. (I was standing next to the lovely Marcia Carlson.)
But Bob's photo from the yearbook is a classic 1966 pose - a fantastic wave up front that probably took a half a tube of Brylcreem to keep aloft.
I sported that look sometimes, but my hair would never hold like Bob's: Brylcreem, Wildroot Cream Oil, you name the product, my hair would collapse into a greasy mess down onto my forehead, which in adolescent years did not need more oil.
The only time my hair could stand up and do-a-Swanson was when I would wash it and walk outside in the winter, where it would freeze solid. Not much of an option.
So, for our reunion, what about everyone trying to redo their hair ala 1966? Do they even manufacture Brylcreem anymore? It could be a contest!
Okay, Okay. This is probably another idea that's likely to die like my earlier suggestion about karaoke at whatever soiree(s) we have.
But look at Bob again and tell me that isn't a great look...
TODAY'S SONG (great for karaoke by the way): It's Only Make Believe by Conway Twitty
More than a few people have said, 'My picture is awful' (Right, CeeJay?), but in truth, the photos tell a thousand stories, even the bad ones.
Now today, here's Bob Swanson's entry. In the 20th reunion photo (posted some time ago) he's standing next to me in the back row with Conrad Wilson flanking him on his left. (I was standing next to the lovely Marcia Carlson.)
But Bob's photo from the yearbook is a classic 1966 pose - a fantastic wave up front that probably took a half a tube of Brylcreem to keep aloft.
I sported that look sometimes, but my hair would never hold like Bob's: Brylcreem, Wildroot Cream Oil, you name the product, my hair would collapse into a greasy mess down onto my forehead, which in adolescent years did not need more oil.
The only time my hair could stand up and do-a-Swanson was when I would wash it and walk outside in the winter, where it would freeze solid. Not much of an option.
So, for our reunion, what about everyone trying to redo their hair ala 1966? Do they even manufacture Brylcreem anymore? It could be a contest!
Okay, Okay. This is probably another idea that's likely to die like my earlier suggestion about karaoke at whatever soiree(s) we have.
But look at Bob again and tell me that isn't a great look...
TODAY'S SONG (great for karaoke by the way): It's Only Make Believe by Conway Twitty
People see us everywhere,
They think you really care,
But myself I can't decieve,
I know it's only make believe
My one and only prayer,
Is that some day you'll care,
My hopes my dreams come true...
They think you really care,
But myself I can't decieve,
I know it's only make believe
My one and only prayer,
Is that some day you'll care,
My hopes my dreams come true...
Monday, June 06, 2005
My story about not going to Vietnam
FREDONIA, N.Y. - The Class of '66 discussion group (the link is to the right) has been buzzing with several tales about military service, or in some cases, the lack thereof.
As soon as John Rupp gets up and running on the discussion list, he'll likely tell us about his escapade of getting drafted, but refusing to be inducted. I won't tell his story, but his and mine mesh in the timeline.
In the spring of 1968, we had both dropped out of our respective colleges, (Villanova for me, I don't remember where John was, Florida, maybe.) Neither of us was inclined to do the study part of school, though I must admit the parties, the girls, the ambiance was pretty neat.
But we did have a goal. We decided that we were going to go the Olympics in Mexico City. Never mind that neither of us spoke Spanish, had passports or a dollar. We were done with college and all we had to do was make a little money and Viva Mexico!
My mother - when I finally got up the courage to tell her I was not going back to Villanova for the spring semester - was good about it. "Fine," she said. "Then you can pay me rent. No college, no free ride."
I hadn't factored that in, and after a month of thinking about it and trying to pay her $20 a week, I took the Jamestown bus down to JCC to sign up for some classes. I took the bus because sons who don't go to college also don't get their mom's car to use. At least not in the Fitzgerald family.
And so, while I was going to JCC, I filed to keep my student deferment. Seemed like a bright idea, given how many people were being drafted.
Fast forward to spring 1970. In the ensuing time I had gotten married and my wife was pregnant with my now 35-year-old son on the way. And, from a draft deferment standpoint, my number had come up in the lottery - 330, I think.
So one afternoon I wandered into the draft board in Fredonia, where Gertrude Mampf (Can anyone forget a name like that?) sat as clerk of the draft board. I went in to be a good scout, to let the draft board now that I had a change in my life - I was now married, though I understood that the married deferments had disappeared a year or two before.
Gertrude pulled my file and realized that I had been sitting with a student deferment since 1966 - but was still at a two-year college.
Her little round body (ok, it wasn't that little) shook with joy when she said I was headed for the Army. I pointed out that I had a high number in the lottery but she just grinned and said to watch the mail for a nastygram from Selective Service.
Sure enough, a week later I had a notice signed by her and the head of the draft board to show up for a physical, and after all the tales about that circus (Doug Hooper has arguably the best stories, though read Jim Carr's on the discussion list) I had to change my shorts several times before I finally took the bus to Buffalo,. There I went the through the whole thing, peeing in plastic cups, getting weighed and measured, etc...
And I was convinced that Gertrude was fixing my records while I was getting poked and prodded to make sure that the next haircut I got was more than a trim.
At the end of the day, sitting in room full of pretty depressed guys, the officer in charge did a roll call and asked us what our numbers were in the lottery.
Until he got to the Fs in the alphabet, the highest number I heard was 39. When he called 'Fitzgerald' and I sang out '330' I thought my life was in serious danger.
No one else in the room had a number over 50.
So I didn't get drafted, though if Gertrude Mampf had her way, I might have had a very different life, or maybe no life.
Was she just a mean butt-head, angry because the world passed her by and she was stuck as clerk of draft boad?
Well, on the bus ride back from the Buffalo, I sat with a fellow who was so depressed he was considering just jumping out of the bus emergency door, in front of the oncoming traffic.
In conversation, I told him about my close call and how if Gertrude had had her way, I'd be history.
"Yeah," he said. "Tell me about it. I dated her daughter for awhile."
I don't know if he dated her daughter or not, I only knew that I went home that night and hugged my wife and prayed that Gertrude was busy mucking up someone else's life and that my lottery number would protect me.
By August no draft notice had shown up, through I did get a document - on my birthday, July 10 - telling me that I was officially 1-A status as far as Selective Service was concerned and to be ready for an induction notice.
I didn't notify Gertrude - or the draft board - when I left Jamestown in August to move to California's wine country.
It just didn't seem like a smart thing to do, number 330 in the lottery or not.
As soon as John Rupp gets up and running on the discussion list, he'll likely tell us about his escapade of getting drafted, but refusing to be inducted. I won't tell his story, but his and mine mesh in the timeline.
In the spring of 1968, we had both dropped out of our respective colleges, (Villanova for me, I don't remember where John was, Florida, maybe.) Neither of us was inclined to do the study part of school, though I must admit the parties, the girls, the ambiance was pretty neat.
But we did have a goal. We decided that we were going to go the Olympics in Mexico City. Never mind that neither of us spoke Spanish, had passports or a dollar. We were done with college and all we had to do was make a little money and Viva Mexico!
My mother - when I finally got up the courage to tell her I was not going back to Villanova for the spring semester - was good about it. "Fine," she said. "Then you can pay me rent. No college, no free ride."
I hadn't factored that in, and after a month of thinking about it and trying to pay her $20 a week, I took the Jamestown bus down to JCC to sign up for some classes. I took the bus because sons who don't go to college also don't get their mom's car to use. At least not in the Fitzgerald family.
And so, while I was going to JCC, I filed to keep my student deferment. Seemed like a bright idea, given how many people were being drafted.
Fast forward to spring 1970. In the ensuing time I had gotten married and my wife was pregnant with my now 35-year-old son on the way. And, from a draft deferment standpoint, my number had come up in the lottery - 330, I think.
So one afternoon I wandered into the draft board in Fredonia, where Gertrude Mampf (Can anyone forget a name like that?) sat as clerk of the draft board. I went in to be a good scout, to let the draft board now that I had a change in my life - I was now married, though I understood that the married deferments had disappeared a year or two before.
Gertrude pulled my file and realized that I had been sitting with a student deferment since 1966 - but was still at a two-year college.
Her little round body (ok, it wasn't that little) shook with joy when she said I was headed for the Army. I pointed out that I had a high number in the lottery but she just grinned and said to watch the mail for a nastygram from Selective Service.
Sure enough, a week later I had a notice signed by her and the head of the draft board to show up for a physical, and after all the tales about that circus (Doug Hooper has arguably the best stories, though read Jim Carr's on the discussion list) I had to change my shorts several times before I finally took the bus to Buffalo,. There I went the through the whole thing, peeing in plastic cups, getting weighed and measured, etc...
And I was convinced that Gertrude was fixing my records while I was getting poked and prodded to make sure that the next haircut I got was more than a trim.
At the end of the day, sitting in room full of pretty depressed guys, the officer in charge did a roll call and asked us what our numbers were in the lottery.
Until he got to the Fs in the alphabet, the highest number I heard was 39. When he called 'Fitzgerald' and I sang out '330' I thought my life was in serious danger.
No one else in the room had a number over 50.
So I didn't get drafted, though if Gertrude Mampf had her way, I might have had a very different life, or maybe no life.
Was she just a mean butt-head, angry because the world passed her by and she was stuck as clerk of draft boad?
Well, on the bus ride back from the Buffalo, I sat with a fellow who was so depressed he was considering just jumping out of the bus emergency door, in front of the oncoming traffic.
In conversation, I told him about my close call and how if Gertrude had had her way, I'd be history.
"Yeah," he said. "Tell me about it. I dated her daughter for awhile."
I don't know if he dated her daughter or not, I only knew that I went home that night and hugged my wife and prayed that Gertrude was busy mucking up someone else's life and that my lottery number would protect me.
By August no draft notice had shown up, through I did get a document - on my birthday, July 10 - telling me that I was officially 1-A status as far as Selective Service was concerned and to be ready for an induction notice.
I didn't notify Gertrude - or the draft board - when I left Jamestown in August to move to California's wine country.
It just didn't seem like a smart thing to do, number 330 in the lottery or not.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
It's Sunday, a day of rest - well, almost
SACRAMENTO, Calif. - Here in Sacramento the school board of a local high school has decided not to rehire a very popular football coach, allegedly because the coach decided that he would not let a board member's son be the starting quarterback a couple of years ago.
Here's a link to the story:
Bye-bye Coach
What a mess!
But as I was getting all wound up over it, and thinking it would make a good From Where I Sit blog topic, or a topic for this website, I realized that maybe I needed to take a quiet day and not rant and rave. And maybe not even try to strain my brain about our high school daze.
So look here tomorrow. By then I will be tan, fit, and rested.
Well, maybe rested anyway.
Here's a link to the story:
What a mess!
But as I was getting all wound up over it, and thinking it would make a good From Where I Sit blog topic, or a topic for this website, I realized that maybe I needed to take a quiet day and not rant and rave. And maybe not even try to strain my brain about our high school daze.
So look here tomorrow. By then I will be tan, fit, and rested.
Well, maybe rested anyway.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Basketball: a game for those with good eyes
JAMESTOWN, N.Y. - About six years ago, I had Lasik surgery to fix my nearsighted eyes after nearly 40 years of wearing glasses (and later struggling with soft contact lenses).
Two things became apparent almost immediately:
1. The world is a lot neater place when you have 20-20 vision, unassisted by glass or plastic lenses.
2. My ability to hit a tennis ball, throw a basketball through a hoop, catch a fly softball, or actually hit a golf ball down the fairway, went up exponentially within weeks of the procedure.
Tiger Woods has nothing to fear, but my leaning toward wrestling and track in high school in retrospect had a lot more to do with not needing good vision than any desire to grapple with other sweaty guys or run until my lungs were on fire. I can still hear Coach Joe Rushin screaming at me, GOGOGOGOGOGO Fitzgerald, GOGOGOGOGOGO...
Today's photo - courtesy of Shirley Adams - is, we believe, the freshman baskeball team and I can recognize most of the people, including the two folks at the end of the back row, Randy Carlson on the left, and Bob Erickson on the right. The late Mr. Stark, Coach Stark in this case, is right in the middle of the back row. Paul Slocum is to the left of the coach, Jack Eckdahl to the right.
I have a much higher resolution version of this which I'll be happy to email to whoever wants one.
In the meantime, I think I'll go outside and see if I can beat my seven-year-old granddaughter at badminton. She's pretty nearsighted - and wears glasses - so I have a good shot at a win, but she's good, so I'm not making any predictions.
More tomorrow.
Two things became apparent almost immediately:
1. The world is a lot neater place when you have 20-20 vision, unassisted by glass or plastic lenses.
2. My ability to hit a tennis ball, throw a basketball through a hoop, catch a fly softball, or actually hit a golf ball down the fairway, went up exponentially within weeks of the procedure.
Tiger Woods has nothing to fear, but my leaning toward wrestling and track in high school in retrospect had a lot more to do with not needing good vision than any desire to grapple with other sweaty guys or run until my lungs were on fire. I can still hear Coach Joe Rushin screaming at me, GOGOGOGOGOGO Fitzgerald, GOGOGOGOGOGO...
Today's photo - courtesy of Shirley Adams - is, we believe, the freshman baskeball team and I can recognize most of the people, including the two folks at the end of the back row, Randy Carlson on the left, and Bob Erickson on the right. The late Mr. Stark, Coach Stark in this case, is right in the middle of the back row. Paul Slocum is to the left of the coach, Jack Eckdahl to the right.
I have a much higher resolution version of this which I'll be happy to email to whoever wants one.
In the meantime, I think I'll go outside and see if I can beat my seven-year-old granddaughter at badminton. She's pretty nearsighted - and wears glasses - so I have a good shot at a win, but she's good, so I'm not making any predictions.
More tomorrow.
Friday, June 03, 2005
A math whiz & one night, a partner in crime
LAKEWOOD, N.Y. - I can't remember which summer it was, exactly, but I didn't have driver's license yet (or my motorcyle, damn) which when I tell this tale will prove to be a good thing.
But about Dave Carlson... Dave was good in math, good enough that he landed in all the 9-1, 10-1, etc. math classes while I landed in the elementary algebra class mostly populated with people who had failed it once already. We had a teacher whose first name was Carl - an older guy - who we would pepper with paperwads whenever he turned around to the blackboard.
No wonder I failed algebra and went to summer school at Jamestown High (with a Mr. Rizzo, but that's another tale).
But this particular summer - the year after that I believe - I started hanging out evenings at the phone booth in the center of Lakewood. The phone would ring and some bored teen somewhere would chat with whoever was around.
Eventually, the Lakewood gendarmes figured out that this was trouble and started coming by, rousting folks. And this particular night Dave Carlson and I were among the roustees, along with a fellow named John O'Neill, a year younger than us but well on his way to catching up with our deliquency.
The three of us wandered over to a young lady's house quite late - and yes I remember her name quite well but will leave it out of the blog but not The Class of '66 - who pleaded with us to get lost before her father woke up and came down stairs. To encourage our departure, she gave us a nearly full bottle of Scotch.
Can you guess what happened?
The next morning when I awoke (in my house), my mother was alternately slapping my face and splashing me with cold water, convinced that I was suffering from alcohol poisoning. I probably was, but I had been sick enough in the night to make pumping my stomach quite unnecessary.
My Lakewood phone booth days were over for that summer and when I talked with Dave later (maybe weeks later) he had slipped in through a bedroom window and woken up with a buzz from his portion of the Scotch, but nothing like the bellringer I had.
To this day, the smell of Scotch whiskey across a room will turn my stomach.
Dave continued to be a math whiz while I failed Math 11 (with Miss Goller) and ended up in summer school again! But at least that year I rode to and from summer school on a motorcycle, not a Jamestown bus.
And John O'Neill? I don't know what happened to him that night or after he graduated.
Or if he likes to sip Scotch.
But about Dave Carlson... Dave was good in math, good enough that he landed in all the 9-1, 10-1, etc. math classes while I landed in the elementary algebra class mostly populated with people who had failed it once already. We had a teacher whose first name was Carl - an older guy - who we would pepper with paperwads whenever he turned around to the blackboard.
No wonder I failed algebra and went to summer school at Jamestown High (with a Mr. Rizzo, but that's another tale).
But this particular summer - the year after that I believe - I started hanging out evenings at the phone booth in the center of Lakewood. The phone would ring and some bored teen somewhere would chat with whoever was around.
Eventually, the Lakewood gendarmes figured out that this was trouble and started coming by, rousting folks. And this particular night Dave Carlson and I were among the roustees, along with a fellow named John O'Neill, a year younger than us but well on his way to catching up with our deliquency.
The three of us wandered over to a young lady's house quite late - and yes I remember her name quite well but will leave it out of the blog but not The Class of '66 - who pleaded with us to get lost before her father woke up and came down stairs. To encourage our departure, she gave us a nearly full bottle of Scotch.
Can you guess what happened?
The next morning when I awoke (in my house), my mother was alternately slapping my face and splashing me with cold water, convinced that I was suffering from alcohol poisoning. I probably was, but I had been sick enough in the night to make pumping my stomach quite unnecessary.
My Lakewood phone booth days were over for that summer and when I talked with Dave later (maybe weeks later) he had slipped in through a bedroom window and woken up with a buzz from his portion of the Scotch, but nothing like the bellringer I had.
To this day, the smell of Scotch whiskey across a room will turn my stomach.
Dave continued to be a math whiz while I failed Math 11 (with Miss Goller) and ended up in summer school again! But at least that year I rode to and from summer school on a motorcycle, not a Jamestown bus.
And John O'Neill? I don't know what happened to him that night or after he graduated.
Or if he likes to sip Scotch.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Kathy should be on Classmates.com, too
ROCHESTER, N.Y. - Kathy Widrig (Kathy Widrig Bradley) is another one of our classmates whose yearbook picture cries out to the people who run Classmates.com.
Look at the smile, the hairdo, the collared blouse, the sweater - it shouts 1966. (And it's a good look even in 2005.)
The entry today is datelined Rochester, because that's where Kathy hangs out now, the office manager of a tool and die shop.
"Sometimes I call it the arm pit of the world. But I have a good job. Been working here for 24 years," she says.
Kathy jumped onto the reunion mailing list right away. And if memory serves correctly, I saw her at the 25th reunion perched on a barstool at The Main Event bar in downtown Jamestown, near the old railroad station.
It was at The Main Event that I realized that there might be a book in all this stuff: reunions, high school, growing up. Ok, it's been 15 years and the damned book is still in progress.
Maybe I should turn it into a screenplay instead. How about Class of '66 - the Movie? You can name the actor you would want to play you. I'll write it into my contract with Paramount.
I didn't know Kathy well in high school - she was from Celeron, I believe. And while that's hardly Indonesia, it seemed sooooo far, particularly until I got my own wheels (a Yamaha 80 motorcycle) but that was senior year.
I think all of us were mobility impaired, which influenced what passed for social life. Once I got my license, my mother would turn loose her 61 Rambler occasionally, but compared to most of the cars my friends had, it was a pretty sad unit.
Still, it went to the drive-in and a place I just remembered that was near Celeron called the 'bum roads.'
But that's for another blog or someone else to fill in the blanks.
Any takers?
Look at the smile, the hairdo, the collared blouse, the sweater - it shouts 1966. (And it's a good look even in 2005.)
The entry today is datelined Rochester, because that's where Kathy hangs out now, the office manager of a tool and die shop.
"Sometimes I call it the arm pit of the world. But I have a good job. Been working here for 24 years," she says.
Kathy jumped onto the reunion mailing list right away. And if memory serves correctly, I saw her at the 25th reunion perched on a barstool at The Main Event bar in downtown Jamestown, near the old railroad station.
It was at The Main Event that I realized that there might be a book in all this stuff: reunions, high school, growing up. Ok, it's been 15 years and the damned book is still in progress.
Maybe I should turn it into a screenplay instead. How about Class of '66 - the Movie? You can name the actor you would want to play you. I'll write it into my contract with Paramount.
I didn't know Kathy well in high school - she was from Celeron, I believe. And while that's hardly Indonesia, it seemed sooooo far, particularly until I got my own wheels (a Yamaha 80 motorcycle) but that was senior year.
I think all of us were mobility impaired, which influenced what passed for social life. Once I got my license, my mother would turn loose her 61 Rambler occasionally, but compared to most of the cars my friends had, it was a pretty sad unit.
Still, it went to the drive-in and a place I just remembered that was near Celeron called the 'bum roads.'
But that's for another blog or someone else to fill in the blanks.
Any takers?
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
2nd grade, Lakewood Elementary School
LAKEWOOD, N.Y. - This 2nd grade shot comes courtesy of Marianne Jim, who found it among her mementos with the 5th grade shot I published earlier.
I can make out Buddy Hooper, Jim Lindell, Jim Nelson, Linda Foster, Frank Nobbs, Barbara Bunce and Bonnie Anderson. (You'll have to find them yourself, I'm supposed to be writing a story and I'm already a little late...).
When this picture was taken, I was still living in Brooklyn, going to a Catholic school where I had Sister Perfecta for a teacher. I'm not kidding. Her name was Sister Perfecta and she was barely taller than us - in 2nd grade.
But she had a wooden ruler that was faster than Zorro's sword and a clicker that could drop a whole classroom of Catholic kids to their knees in a heartbeat.
This Lakewood elementary group should seems like everyone is, well, happy! Compare it to the fifth grade photo and see how many folks are smiling.
Later today (when I am off deadline), I will email the original hi-resolution version of this to everyone on the list.
Second grade. Kee-rist! I have a granddaughter in 2nd grade.
I can make out Buddy Hooper, Jim Lindell, Jim Nelson, Linda Foster, Frank Nobbs, Barbara Bunce and Bonnie Anderson. (You'll have to find them yourself, I'm supposed to be writing a story and I'm already a little late...).
When this picture was taken, I was still living in Brooklyn, going to a Catholic school where I had Sister Perfecta for a teacher. I'm not kidding. Her name was Sister Perfecta and she was barely taller than us - in 2nd grade.
But she had a wooden ruler that was faster than Zorro's sword and a clicker that could drop a whole classroom of Catholic kids to their knees in a heartbeat.
This Lakewood elementary group should seems like everyone is, well, happy! Compare it to the fifth grade photo and see how many folks are smiling.
Later today (when I am off deadline), I will email the original hi-resolution version of this to everyone on the list.
Second grade. Kee-rist! I have a granddaughter in 2nd grade.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Isetta automobile - some Class of '66 history
SAN DIEGO, Calif. - I spotted this car in the parking lot yesterday, right near where Sabbatical is moored. It's an Isetta and if Bud Hooper is reading this, or Bob Fulcher, they will remember that a neighbor of ours had one of these tiny things back in the very early 1960s.
Remember the early 1960s? Except for the very rare Volkswagen Beetle, every car was a monster. So the Isetta was such an odd duck and, well, so light.
How do I know how light it was?
Well, on several occasions, much to the chagrin of its owner, we would move it around in his driveway, by lifting it. And on a couple of other occasions, I seem to remember tipping it on its side, once actually putting it on its top and spinning it. I doubt that we actually spun it on its top, but who knows, that was more than 40 years ago.
All of these incidents occurred in the dead of night, of course, so we could remain anonymous and blame it on others.
I suspect the owner probably knew which neighborhood miscreants were busy moving his car, but we didn't really damage it, much. Of course, if some teenagers did that to my car today, it would be war.
It's hell to get old.
The Isetta - which was the urban equivalent of cow tipping, I suppose - reminded me of Halloween and how destructive everyone was back when we were growing up. It seemed like it was open season on anyone. But we did learn a few good tricks, like putting dog crap in a paper bag on someone's doorstep, lighting with a match and then yelling Fire! Fire!
With most people today using those little plastic bags to pick up after their dogs, where would teenagers even find a good load to trick their neighbors with?
Now there's a question to ponder for today, classmates.
Remember the early 1960s? Except for the very rare Volkswagen Beetle, every car was a monster. So the Isetta was such an odd duck and, well, so light.
How do I know how light it was?
Well, on several occasions, much to the chagrin of its owner, we would move it around in his driveway, by lifting it. And on a couple of other occasions, I seem to remember tipping it on its side, once actually putting it on its top and spinning it. I doubt that we actually spun it on its top, but who knows, that was more than 40 years ago.
All of these incidents occurred in the dead of night, of course, so we could remain anonymous and blame it on others.
I suspect the owner probably knew which neighborhood miscreants were busy moving his car, but we didn't really damage it, much. Of course, if some teenagers did that to my car today, it would be war.
It's hell to get old.
The Isetta - which was the urban equivalent of cow tipping, I suppose - reminded me of Halloween and how destructive everyone was back when we were growing up. It seemed like it was open season on anyone. But we did learn a few good tricks, like putting dog crap in a paper bag on someone's doorstep, lighting with a match and then yelling Fire! Fire!
With most people today using those little plastic bags to pick up after their dogs, where would teenagers even find a good load to trick their neighbors with?
Now there's a question to ponder for today, classmates.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Mr. Gugino & the Class of '66 (5th grade version)
IONE, Calif. - We have Marianne Jim to thank for the photo with today's blog posting - and another grade school shot I will post tomorrow (or tonight if the fog blows in here in San Diego and I can't work on my sailboat).
Marianne dug through her memorabilia and found this shot. What a beauty!
I remember making those marionettes - and the play we put on.
You can kind of figure out who most people are. I can name most of people in the photo. Steve Larson is in the back row at the left, for example. Linda Hetrick is in the front row on the right. Ted Capella is in the second row, third from left next to George Opdahl. One thing that surprised me is how young Augustine Gugino appears in the photo. He looks like maybe he in his 40s. I thought he was ancient when we were in 5th grade.
Later today I will email out a jpeg copy of this photo - but be warned, it's a big file and might take a moment to download. But then you should be able to see the faces quite well.
Thanks Marianne.
Marianne dug through her memorabilia and found this shot. What a beauty!
I remember making those marionettes - and the play we put on.
You can kind of figure out who most people are. I can name most of people in the photo. Steve Larson is in the back row at the left, for example. Linda Hetrick is in the front row on the right. Ted Capella is in the second row, third from left next to George Opdahl. One thing that surprised me is how young Augustine Gugino appears in the photo. He looks like maybe he in his 40s. I thought he was ancient when we were in 5th grade.
Later today I will email out a jpeg copy of this photo - but be warned, it's a big file and might take a moment to download. But then you should be able to see the faces quite well.
Thanks Marianne.
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