Poet's Alibi - Chapter 4

Tenth Grade High School Sophomore

     Math troubles or not, I enrolled in algebra class because it was a required course.
     Did you catch what I did NOT say in the starting sentence to this chapter? If you're an aware typical American or even a Brit, you noticed I did not say, "...I enrolled in algebra class as it was a required course." Why intelligent people use "as" this way befuddles and moderately frustrates me because they should know better. These same people usually use "as to" in sentences such as "The hunter wondered as to whether the mountain lion had leapt onto the trunk of a nearby tree or crossed the stream." Why not say "wondered about whether" or better yet, ",,,wondered whether..." The local news anchor people preview the coming 6:00 P.M. telecast saying, "Coming up: news on the status of salary negotiations at City Hall." Does that kind of writing (and speaking) make you wonder how they can talk while hiding the toothpicks in their mouths and the soft packs of Marlboros in the sleeves of their tee shirts? It makes me wonder that, and why they don't say, "...news about the status..." instead. But I digress..........................
     Because of my music, despite algebra, my sophomore year was another good year in the main. Friends made and seen only in homeroom with Mrs. Staley included Jerry Campbell who would die while serving in Vietnam. In 1962, my first fall at SHS, no one I had heard of Vietnam, but by the time we graduated, we would be hearing about it almost every day. Red-headed twins Rich and Ron Savorgino were also in my homeroom class. One of them set a state long jump record, and one of them later served on submarines in the US Navy. Both were great guys!
     The flying model airplane gang, begun in ninth grade prospered into the fall. Besides flying at a baseball diamond behind Franklin, we began flying at Washington Park near the carillon. This lasted a few weeks until we were told by authorities not to fly there. We wrote a letter to the park board asking permission and were denied. Still, some of the most cherished pictures of my life were taken during our fling at Washington Park. Some of these and other pictures will be published at my AeroKnow web site. It was during this time that we formed a model airplane club called the Sky Knights. I did the logo design and produced a log of our activities, subsequently lost in the many shuffles of my life. Gary Baldwin, who lived on Cardinal Drive was also a member, built a Top Flight Nobler, later crashed. Most everything anyone built eventually crashed. But that was okay, we loved the pastime. Gary moved away to Washington later in the year.
     We set up another flying field across from Jim Richardson’s house, put plywood sheets down for a smooth surface for takeoffs. This would be our home base and hangout for two years.
     Acappella choir met my sophomore year in a big room in the southwest corner of the building. It would be moved to the band room, a separate structure, my junior & senior years. I was in awe of the older students in choir: Ed Atterberry, Janet Boosinger whose parents hosted our Christmas choir party, Ed "Bogie" Charlton, Sue Maupin who would die in St. Louis in April 2003, Suzanne Tomlinson (who would inspire my first poetry, since sixth grade and my first song, and my neighbor Bill Wilson, then a senior. The entire choir was nothing short of outstanding as a musical team and social circus. We sang some incredible music, including George Ecklund’s musical adaptation of Vachel Lindsay’s poem "The Congo," "Songs of Innocence," based on three William Blake poems, many Normal Luboff and Robert Shaw Chorale arrangements and even some with the Mitch Miller choral touch. The Christmas and Spring concerts were milestones of my life my sophomore year and for two years afterwards.
     Most classes went okay. The exception was algebra which I had to pass. Mr. Juvenal, my algebra teacher, was not meant for teaching in high school. His mannerisms, including a nervous twitch which made his lips appear to pucker in mid-sentence, his short, bald stature and obvious nervousness gave him the carriage of a jittery Elmer Fudd. I comprehended little of what he earnestly taught, and I was too often a juvenile brat in his class. The classroom was located on the second floor, over a side entrance to the school, and my algebra class took place when the first lunch shift was in session. On a warm winter day following a snow storm, our windows were open to let in some of the Indian summer outside. Mr. J was having a hard time with his lecture, responding to a student who was baiting him with stupid questions, and as he raised his voice to make his final point, silently and gracefully, as though in slow motion, a snowball sailed into the room, almost swishing through the open space, arching not quite up to the ceiling before landing on the far side of the room. Everyone in class was speechless, transfixed by the snowball . . . until it hit and skittered along the floor. It had missed Mr. J’s head by inches. The path was precisely between his position at the blackboard and his desk and front tables. It missed all of that before hitting the floor.  
      When it did, a student picked up the pieces and deposited them into a waste basket. Mr. J kept perfectly calm, walked to the windows, closed them, returned to the center of the room and finished his point. We talked about this for the rest of our time in high school!
     During one winter at SHS – and it could as easily have been the one of 62-63, Jim R., his brother Bill, another friend and I went sledding at Illini Golf Course one Saturday afternoon. A thaw, followed by a hard freeze and another thawing, had put a coat of ice over the once powdery snow, making the trek back up the hill, dragging our sleds a real challenge. It was no where near as challenging as coming down the hill. We discovered we really had to think ahead to steer our sleds over the slick ice. After one or two round trips, I realized, as I saw that I was rapidly approaching the stream that meandered through the low part of the territory. I knew what would happen if I went into the recently thawed water, and I began sliding off the back of my sled, not in time. The sled went into the stream, followed by me about a half second behind. I didn’t even feel cold in the water, but I calmly talked to myself, reminding me that I should get my head above the surface before I inhaled. And, seemingly slowly from my perspective, I did. Standing up in the stream that reached not even up to my waist, I looked up at the stream bank about neck high and started to climb out, then reached back and lifted my sled out first. By this time, Jim and others had arrived at the bank and were glad to see I wasn’t hurt. In short order we all hiked back to his house, about three blocks away. Mrs. Richardson put my clothes into the dryer and gave me some of Jim’s to wear in the meantime. She also called Mom and she came after me awhile later. I hadn’t even a scratch on me, but I was not in a mood to walk home. End of story.
     A major positive influence was Mr. Schoenbeck, my English teacher. He encouraged my creative writing, and I never had en English assignment at SHS that I did not enjoy. I even enjoyed diagramming sentences because that helped me understand how the language works and why. I credit part of this appreciation for the fact we also diagrammed sentences in fifth and sixth grades, too. It was fun! One day, the text suggested writing an essay with one of four titles, including "Driving in a Storm." Knowing what the title intended, I waxed creative and wrote a fictional account of visiting the golf ball driving range during a downpour. Schoenbeck appreciated my approach to the task.
     Zoology class was a mixed bag for me. The teacher was unofficially known as "Buggy Joe Spitale," an older bespectacled man whose mind rampaged at 100 miles an hour and whose mouth almost kept up. He had taught zoology when my sister came through SHS 12 years earlier, and she told me he was a lecherous coot with female students. The girls knew how to watch for him when they were hunkered over their microscopes, and they knew to sit up when he came over to "help." One of my high points was working with Sue Starling, a statuesque, shy, and to a degree, stand-offish person whom I thought had possibilities, and whom I knew had a great future. We were assigned to work on an insect-collecting project together, and we did okay. I enjoyed class most of the time, especially learning the Latin terms for classifying animals. I did well with Latin because of its connection to so many words used in modern English.
     Often, on Fridays it seemed, we had assemblies where prominent individuals, including Jessie Owens who did pushups with his fingers extended, a fellow who made illustrations with colored sand, another fellow who could write longhand on a chalkboard and spell any word or sentence backward so that reflected in a mirror it looked perfectly okay. Sometimes our assemblies were pep rallies. An occasion I later determined to be in November, 1962 we all piled into the auditorium to see a fellow named Nick Lindsay. Few of us had a clue who he was, least of all, me.
     Nick said he built boats in Iowa. His father was Vachel Lindsay, and he was going to share some of his father’s poems. And he did, so well that I was mesmerized and transformed into someone I would not have become if I had been waylaid at home with a cold. The power of the poem "The Kallyope Yell" and the way he approached poems reached the core of my soul and stayed there. Years later, I remembered Nick Lindsay’s presentation and philosophy of sharing poetry aloud, and I accepted his ideas without consciously trying to imitate him. If I had never seen Nick Lindsay, I would not have written my compendium about his father, and I would not have memorized and shared so many of his father’s poems. I would not have become serious about my poetry and the poetry of other writers either.
     On the negative side, zoology was the last class of the day, and in my class thrived the loftiest clique of the sophomore class. Unlike most students, I was never bothered by cliques or jealous of them. I understood why they came together, and if they wanted to strut their special stuff like peacocks in the spring, that was okay with me. What annoyed me was that partially because they were among the brightest kids in class, they chortled and whispered among themselves as though what Joe Spitale was saying was a dreary droll of inconsequential import, polluting their room. They played their games, and Spitale made no effort to quiet them or discipline them so that the rest of us could better learn what he was telling us during lectures.
As first semester final exams approached, I was not as confident as I wanted to be. We knew half the zoology test would be about classifying animals; Latin words I would be fine with, but the rest would be a major challenge to me.
     Spitale informed us the day of the test that we’d be on our honor not to cheat, and left the room. It took all of about 14 seconds after he left for the room begin to buzz as the clique began passing notes and whispering answers to each other. Some literally conversed across the room, asking questions and getting answers. My blood began to boil. After completing my test, I used the time left to write a letter to Buggy Joe describing what was going on all around me. I explained, naming names, who was cheating and how sad I felt that they would pass their tests with "A" grades, and even though I studied hard, was not confident I would earn a "C." As things would turn out I did get a "C" for acing my classification half and netting a "D" for the other half. I included my note with my test, and left it on his desk as I departed.
     The next day, the clique was not present in zoology class. And the end of class, Spitale called me aside to explain why. His final exams were graded by a student assistant with an answer key. The assistant knew most of the cheating students, called them, but also let these students – and Spitale – know what I had written in my note. The cheating students decided on their own not to attend the class. During the class the day after, we did not discuss the test.
     The next day, in the hallway, a friend of the cheaters (who went on to be a postman) verbally railed at me, explaining that a bunch of "unhappy guys will be waiting for you sometime after school in the next few days."
     The interlude really scared me! I went to Mr. Gates, the boys’ counseller, and explained my predicament. He was a steady hand at the helm; later became a school principal. He explained there are only two places a fellow has to be with people whom he doesn’t like and who don’t like him. One was in school, and the other is in the army. With an employer, you can ask for a different shift or go to work somewhere else. At church, you can change churches. He said he would let people know that if I was hurt, the grownups would know who was to blame, but that was all he could do. And he stressed the value of getting along in school.
     I was lucky. There were no after-school confrontations with anyone. Nobody put a hand on me. My feelings were very ambiguous toward the cheater ring leaders who also held back from re-arranging my nose. I have not forgotten most of their names, but I also felt like an incredible loser because I felt grateful for THEIR kindness in not delivering their revenge after school.
     Some months later, Chip Lindley came up to me as I was eating lunch in the cafeteria and told me some of the gang from the Spitale incident wanted to see me. As I headed with him into the hall just outside the cafeteria, I was glad I had finished my main course because it was time – apparently – for my "just desserts." Another cheating incident, similar to my antic, had occurred, and the guys, thought I was behind it. Believe it or not, I was not behind it, and I was not nervous as we approached four or five clearly bothered kids. During our stroll, Chip had explained why they wanted to see me, I knew I was not connected, and there was no reason for me to be nervous. As they started to interrogate me, I found myself getting angry with them. I told them I didn’t know why they thought I was the guy who had blown the whistle, that I had had absolutely nothing to do with it, and I would never have anything to do with reporting cheaters again. They were surprised, but they believed me, and they didn’t bother me for the rest of my time as SHS.
     On the positive side, I had met the first girl I would ever kiss. I won’t embarrass her by giving her full name; suffice to say she was Janet W. Though I can’t remember how we met, I can say that once we met, we had a great time: passing notes, the usual gossip. She had cousins: Scott, a math genius, Barb, a "Betty" to Janet’s "Veronica;" Barb’s brother Malcolm and a mutual friend Grant, almost a "Reggie," who were players in the saga. I, of course, was "Archie."  My first kiss came at a Christmas party at my house. The rest of my family as in the basement recreation room as eight of my friends shared music, talk and a fire in the fireplace. As the party continued, all of us drinking nothing more lethal than Coke and 7-Up, Jan and I shared a single wingtip antique chair, and this is where we kissed. The name of the tune playing, sung by a group like The Four Preps, was "The Girl That I Marry," a coincidence of absolute sillyness. I played this album a lot. I was a big fan of harmonizing vocal groups.
     Weeks later I learned that a flurry of note writing had taken place between Linda W. whom I had had a major crush on in junior high, and Janet. I discovered this because cousins shared notes with cousins, and I was close to Scott who shared the story. Linda had sent Jan a note predicting that I would not kiss her during the party, and she was wrong. Linda was a great girl, but we had drifted apart. Not having any classes together contributed to this. I had known no ties to Linda in high school and was completely unaware that she and Jan were passing notes.
     Jan and I were an "item" for the rest of my sophomore year and into summer. I took remedial math at summer school at Lanphier High. Verdi Altizer was my teacher. This time, I attended every class, happy to do so. I still remember Lee Halberg’s dad, who was principal of Lanphier at the time, announcing on the public address system, in the middle of a heat wave before schools had air conditioning, that we were going to experience a "cold wave" one day with temperatures expected to reach only 94 degrees or so.
     After morning summer school, I’d rush home by bus and often call Jan. We’d meet on our bicycles, often at a neighborhood grocery store on Ash Street and usually come to my house. Sometimes Scott would come over too, and we’d work on model airplanes in the basement. Sometimes Scott would work on models in the basement, and Jan and I would find something to do upstairs until 4:00 would roll around and guests would depart for home. Things moved pretty fast that summer, but they didn’t move fast long. One afternoon, the phone rang, I picked it up and was petrified to hear Jan’s mother on the other end of the line. "Job, this is Janet’s mother. May I speak to Janet, please?" (I lied,)"Ma’am she’s not here." "But, Job I just drove by and saw her bicycle by your front porch. You tell her that if she knows what’s good for her, she will come home right now." I hung up the phone in a state of shock, and Jan hurried home.
     From that day, Jan was not permitted to speak to me. Her cousins told me she had been lectured and punished pretty earnestly, pretty big-time. All contact was broken and so it countinued for about 30 years. I saw her in a grocery store, and we spoke in the aisle, all hands on the grocery carts. She said she was living at Lake Springfied and doing well. I told her I was living in a duplex on Glenwood and selling cameras at K’s Merchandise. We wished each other well and never saw each other again.
     The rest of high school is a blur. It was all small change, compared to Janet.
    I learned how to play guitar pretty well for a high school folksinger. Formed a folk group with Jim Richardson on guitar, Carl Musson on banjo, and Steve Baker, who drove a Triumph TR-4 on guitar. We practiced some songs and auditioned for the high school variety show and were accepted.
     I also auditioned as a piano player, playing, by ear of course, some songs I had taught myself, including "The Second Time Around." This was not the kind of song one would expect from a sophomore, and that, combined with the fact I was a better guitarist than pianist, kept me out of the show as a keyboard man.
     Things were set for the folk group to play the variety show, but I caught a heck of a bug that kept me out of school for a week. This kept me from practicing with the folk group, so even though my health improved as the day approached, I was voted OUT of the group. Other factors had contributed: we had verbally slugged through some discussions about what songs we should play, I had wanted us to wear white slacks but the others wanted black slacks, so I was out. To this day, when I perform with a guitar or recite poetry, I wear white polished cotton trousers.
      Earlier in the school year, Dad, with permission from Dan Sprecklemeyer and the school authorities, had been recording acappella choir concerts and making copies for choir members for no charge. I arranged to take Dad’s expensive tape recording equipment to the variety show to record it. So I sat in a chair on the floor in front of the stage, operating the tape recorder, while the variety show played. I also took Dad’s twin-lens Rolliflex, a professional camera that he had held on to after selling the rest of his photo and darkroom gear. Sitting there, I was glad that I was contributing to the show (tapes were given to some folks afterwards) though I was boiling inside, mad and ashamed of being kept out of the folk group. I should have been up on stage with Richardson, Musson and Baker. Later I’d make it, and (almost) never looked back.
      For the rest of my school life, I had some "like life" and no love life, and few friends. My drawing the line in zoology class and blowing the whistle, marked me as a loser for the rest of my life, and I have regretted the consequence – though I have not regretted my action – since that day in 1962.
      Life at school settled down to a near-normal routine. Stayed with acappella for all three years and enjoyed every nanosecond of it. Came close to new "love" with Suzanne T. who was a year older than me, an alto. I asked her to an invitational dance at the Hotel Leland – a Valentine’s Day event. It says something positive that not every boy was invited to invitational dances by groups of young ladies whose parents financed these occasions, so my name must have been worth something. It also may be that some of the girls’ parents might have known my parents and that’s how I made the list. Suzanne agreed to be my date, and Dad agreed to drive us and pick us up. It was a snowy cold night, and there were traces of snow on the ground, uncannily like Springfield on February 14, 2004 as I write these words.
     I even bought her a corsage. We had a decent time. Though I have rhythm and love to gyrate, I don’t like to gyrate on a dance floor. I was okay with slow dancing at arms’ length, but I preferred to be away from the dance floor, in an adjacent room where the music wasn’t so loud. Dad picked us up on time, Suzanne arrived home on time, and I fell hopelessly in "looooooooove" with her. Wrote my first love song for her to be accompanied by guitar. The chorus:
          "Tell a tale of woe and grief
          Tell a tale of trouble.
          Tell Suzanne my heart is
          Gonna break, just like a bubble." . . . . and five verses.
     A few years later, I played "Suzanne" for Bill Wilson, my next door neighbor, whom I had taught his first guitar chords, and had taken his much greater talent for the instrument to considerable success in a bluegrass group he played in when he attended Southern Illinois University. He was impressed by my song, and I gave him permission to play it at school. I was a high school senior when this happened.
     I also wrote my first "looooove poem," after the young lady caged my heart. It read in part . . . .
          " ‘Just friends’ she said.
          ‘Just friends may we forever be’
          But can’t she see?
          ‘Just friends’ is nice and clean and neat,
          But in my heart, ‘just friends’ is bittersweet.
          For now I find I must conceal
          The truth of what I really feel for her."
and it continued for two more stanzas. For 30 years, I didn’t share – with the public -- this poem or any other poem inspired by a woman I really cared for. I thought there was nobility in honoring the "objects of my affliction" by keeping the poems between us and letting no one else share that special part of my heart. And I felt that way until I was 40something. I still have not shared the entire poem I wrote for Suzanne in a book of poetry that is widely circulated . I never will.
That summer, Jim Richardson began building the giant Berkeley kit of the Ryan Navion, a popular light plane of the late 40s and early 50s. He wanted to take some pictures of a real Navion, and had learned that an airport close to Peoria -- not the big municipal airport, but a smaller one nearby -- had several based there. Stu Laird, a high school student friend of Jim's who lived just north of Outer Park on Noble, I believe, west of Franklin Junior High, drove the three of us up to the airport for a look around. We had lunch at Von Achen's Junction, a railroad-theme establishment next to an abandoned spur of  railroad tracks. Occasionally, the owners would play the sound of a train "roariing by the restaurant" and with the sound, the place would actually rattle a little, though the noise level was not uncomfortable. It was a nifty place to eat. We had a great time wandering around the airport and went for a ride in a Navion, an act of serendipity I believe Stu arranged by lucky chance when we arrived. We flew some touch and goes at Peoria's big airport, and we heard on the radio intercom with the tower that we were following a flight of Air National Guard F-100s. As we circled, I could see them landing, seeming to crawl up to the runway and touch down. An amazing sight! Jim built his Navion and flew it once, I think before it "bought the farm."

High School Junior
     Two teachers: Miss Hensler, Joe Rockford; the first, a KNOCKOUT feast for the eyes and intellect! A history teacher who was so frighteningly erudite and well-humored that for the rest of my life, I would not find her equal. Julia Roberts comes close, but there was something in Hensler’s flashing eyes: gravity, substance, weight, layers of mellow harmonies – and all this falling on a kid who knew absolutely nothing about life! I semi-shone in her class, as much to see her smile as for any other reason. She inscribed my yearbook with a note that suggested she saw something significant in me, too. Not in a romantic sense. but words that seemed to appreciate my intellectual prowess.
     Joe Rockford was an extraordinary civics teacher. He was an athlete (or as we say in Springfield, "athalete") who went on to a very successful coaching career at SHS. A gifted teacher, who was a "no nonsense" leader but warmly affable and approachable for conversation.
     Albee Plain was the physical  education teacher who had worked as a kid for my dad at Roberts Bros. and continued to buy clothes from him. At the time I had him sophomore and junior years, he was a crew-cut very-well focused gentleman, who was persistent enough for me to succeed in a class requirement: to run the mile in eight minutes or less. Our track ran around the perimeter of an athletic field about a two block walk from school. It showed signs of earlier glory: a concrete bleachers structure on the east side and a well-worn crushed coal cinders track. Suffice to say, on my third attempt, I made it. Phys ed was mostly warm-ups of group calisthenics followed by shooting hoops inside or I can’t even remember what, outside. It was always a mad rush back to the showers and feeling soggy from not adequately drying off before heading to the next regular class. The aroma of Right Guard deodorant and the incomparable fragrance of the boys’ locker room are indelibly etched into my mind. On balance, I learned the value of not becoming obese, but I did not learn how to shed the inner tube around my mid-section that I believe I was born with and continues to perch there to this day. While I’ve never become an athlete, I never shied away from strenuous exercise or physical work when it was called for. I never really minded mowing the lawns for parents, though they did it most of the time, and for awhile 30 years later, I even purchased a manual lawn mower because I preferred the physical exercise of pushing it along to the easier load of a power mower. When I told my Dad about this as an adult, he thought it was "the stupidest thing I ever heard of."
    At a school assembly, we were told about the new Junior Achievement program that was going to meet at the YMCA. I signed up for it and had a great time. The "company" I was in was sponsored by Franklin Life Insurance Co., and several low-to-mid-management people from FL were involved with JA, every one of them absolutely first class. Under their guidance, we selected and "manufactured" a matchbox holder made of four small boxes of stick matches sandwiched between about 4 inch x 4 inch plastic tile. We met weekly and our little company elected me an officer (forgot what officer) while producing these products and selling them like crazy to friends and even strangers.
     We were invited to set up a sales table at Barker-Lubin when that company was on Ninth Street just south and east of St. John's Hospital, across from the "castle" before progress demolished that wonderful landmark. I was there at our table all day, and did better than the rest, selling our products to innocent bystanders who had come in shopping for plumbing supplies, lumber and tools and left with our decorative and stylish match box dispensers as well. I did so well, that as we started talking to kids from the other Junior Achievement company who had set up a table there that day, I volunteered to help them sell their product too. It was  a rock salt dispenser with rock salt in a re-labled plastic bleach bottle with a slot cut into the front of it. When tilted forward, the salt came out in a wide (four inch) swath, which made it easy to spread salt on snow and ice. From the time I took on this task, about 1 p.m. until 4, I sold exactly two or three of these rock salt things, which was two or three more than anyone belonging to that JA company had done. I couldn't believe it. One of the Barker-Lubin people said he was impressed with me, and LOANED me some sales brochures to teach me more about selling. He did want them back, and although it would be months before I took them back (much longer than either of us imagined it would) I did.
     Sometime that year, I started work as a page for the brand new west branch of Lincoln Library on West Washington, across from Sacred Heart Academy. As a page, I checked out books, returned them to the shelves, and "read the shelves" to be sure none were out of order, put back in the wrong place by a browsing visitor. My work schedule didn't begin until 4:30 or 5, but I'd walk there from school, study at one of the magazine reading tables in the front, and read all the aviation magazines I liked until it was time to go to work. I worked with two other students: Jack, a math genius, and Sue, who was very interested in library science. Both were great people to know. The boss of the West Branch was Thelma Schultz, sculpted from a heart as soft as granite with a brain to match. My savior in my ineptitude was Mrs. Roland, the assistant librarian, who was more patient and seemed to understand me better. I enjoyed the work. I got along with everyone except the most important person. A little better self-discipline from me would have helped me immensely. Still, things seemed to go okay until one day I was fired. From my first job. I don't remember why, but I'm sure I never quite got the hang of something important and Schultzy ran out of rope. I know I didn't steal anything or make rude remarks to the patrons.
    It was at West Branch that I had my first proof that I was growing up. A young boy came up to the counter from the children's side, the east side of the large room, and said, "Mister, could...." and I don't remember the rest. I understood that when someone calls you "mister" and you're a guy, you're getting old. I was all of 16 at the time.
     Barb F. and I met at a dance in the gym, and that night I asked her to another invitational I had been invited to. She said, "yes," and I was a happy guy. She was blonde-cute, a combination of Cathy Rigby and Monica Seles (whom I know was a brunette, but has Barb’s eyes.) She gave me her phone number, and I said I’d call. And when I finalllllllllly got around to calling her, about four weeks later, I learned some manners. She told me that when she hadn’t heard from me in so long, she made other plans and would not attend the invitational with me. She told me I was off my rocker if I expected to call her after waiting so long, and expecting her to jump as if everything was fine, because everything was not fine. She was absolutely right. I didn’t go to the invitational with anyone. I stayed home. That was okay. No poetry. Some heart ache, but no heartbreak. She remains in my memory, the vivacious, smiling, bundle of joy that she was during the two hours I was with her at the gymnasium dance floor my junior year at Springfield high school.
     The frigidness surrendered to warmer weather and with it a return to flying model airplanes. Some where, some time, I had met an older flying model builder. He was Bob Petersen, a fellow builts like a ball-turret gunner, with a ready smile and engaging conviviality. Dad and I were invited to visit his house, and that visit might have imprinted on my brain, the idea of becoming a collector of things model-aeronautical. His basement was like manly-boy heaven without the distaff component. It resembled Tony and his father Anthony Russo's house which I had visited as a Springfield Prop Buster, but more so. And Bob, like both Russos, was a superb builder and model flyer. He had stories, told like Steve McQueen might have told stories. He told me about a new business he was starting called Dizzyland, a flying field for u-controllers on Wabash between the miniature golf course and the go-cart track. It also had a hobbyshop there on the grounds, and a corrugated steel covered spectator area.  W O W! Jim Richardson, Mike Evoy and a few others flocked to the new landmark. I spent about every waking moment there, riding my bike when I needed to or riding with one of the guys who had their drivers' licenses.   Photographs I found in preparing to write about Dizzyland show we were there in March, 1964, and the fun continued through summer.
      During this period, as things got rolling at Dizzyland, Jim R. completed a largeVeco Smoothie, and I designed the paint scheme for it. My main function in the flying model scheme of things was as a spectator and photographer. Among the planes photographed was another large stunt plane made by Vito Princivalli, a friend from Springfield Prop Buster days. I also started building the new 1/72 scale plastic kits. I purchased an Airfix Zero and Mustang from the Dizzyland shop, though Black & Company Hardware had also started to sell the new line of plastics at their downtown store in the front part of their sporting goods department on Monroe across from the new Sangamon County Building, and on MacArthur. This time around I began trying hard to paint these new plastic models as well as I could and pay careful attention putting them together.
      With Bob's encouragement, I decided to start a club for plastic model builders and posted a sign at Dizzyland, that we'd meet on a Sunday at 1 there. Something came up with the family and I could not attend. When I arrived is a rush later in the day, Bob looked at me like I had just shot a hole in my food and said something like "Several people showed up for the meeting, but when you didn't show, the left. Go figure." So much for my grand scheme for a plastic model airplane club. More schemes would follow in the years to come.
     Bob Petersen noticed my interest in artistic aspects of the action and he created a contest for another regular named Randy and me. A major model airplane engine manufacturer, Fox, had an advertising illustration of a cartoon fox riding a cartoon model airplane. It was a cute illustration. Bob invited me to paint a large version of this illustration on one side of the hobby shop, and Randy to paint a version on the other side. The public would vote for the best rendition. Despite my artistic flair, I approached it as though I were forging a copy of the original into the side of the hobbyshop. Randy, a far better artist, showed a true artist's understanding of the original, and it was clearly the winner.
        The day Randy was given his prize, I made the kind of smart-alek remark only a sore looser would make, to Bob Petersen, who had been nice enough to create the contest and include me in it. He went into the hobbyshop and came out with the Carl Goldberg Half-A Blazer free flight model kit I had tried to win and set it down on the bench where I was sitting. He  said something like, "Here's your prize, Job. Now don't bother coming around again."  and walked away!
     Since that time, additional memories of Dizzyland are like the memories of what I might have done just after a car wreck. I would genuinely like to know what happened after that. I don't think I ever returned to Dizzyland, and I know that the whole enterprise went out of business I believe in late 1964.  Later, Bob Petersen and I faced each other across a camera counter at K's Merchandise where I was selling cameras and doing pretty well at it. With him was his wife, a KNOCKOUT example of that exquisite half of humanity! We shared some pleasantries, but didn't discuss Dizzyland. There wasn't time, and I was at work. If any reader knows more about Dizzyland, please e me   writer@eosinc
     During summer vacation, the World’s Fair was taking place in New York City. My parents had graciously agreed to pay my way for a high school trip taken by SHS juniors and seniors, chaperoned by several teachers. It was known and "the Washington/New York trip." Preparations began early in the year. Dad, who was head clothing buyer for Roberts Bros, had been to NYC several times, and knew many manufacturers in the city’s garment district. These key people knew how to get tickets to Broadway plays and musicals, and as the year began rolling, Dad made some calls to see that tickets he could get for three friends and me. I had requested "Hello Dolly," "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum," and two other shows. We were absolutely amazed when four tickets for all four arrived at our house in early May! Since we had time to attend only one, we chose "A Funny Thing’" and sent the others back.
     At least 30 students signed up for the trip, including Bob Gilbert, Carl Musson and Bill Adloff. My civics teacher, Tom Hughes, a good guy, was one of the chaperones. We took the GM&O train to Chicago and transferred to the Pennsylvania Central for the trip to DC. We didn’t have sleeper cars, but we didn’t need them. We slept just fine in the coaches. An unforgettable sight was Pittsburgh as we passed through the steel making area in the middle of the night with flames shooting high from the smelters. It was like a scene from Dante’s Inferno.
     We stayed at a typical tourist hotel in downtown DC and took tour busses almost everywhere we went. The area around the hotel had its share of what we called dirty book dealers, and a major event in my young life was the purchase of my first "naturalist" publication from a shop that seemed to be popular with minority customers. Dad had trusted me with the Rolliflex camera, and I took lots of pictures; sent them to Kodak for processing and they were then sent home so I could see them later. During our tour of the White House, I even sneaked a picture of the inside of one of the rooms, even though signs said photography was prohibited. The picture was useless anyway, way underexposed, what I deserved for the subterfuge. At the Washington Monument, several of us raced up the stairway instead of taking the elevator. I remember most the wide stairway more than the view from the top. We also visited the Smithsonian Institution where I photographed the Wright Flyer and "Spirit of St. Louis." The Bell X-1 and Lockheed Vega "Winnie Mae" were displayed in a museum annex, long before the National Air & Space Museum was constructed.
     The visit to the re-constructed colonial village of Williamsburg was also great fun. The grounds were immaculate, and everything appeared incredibly well organized. On the way back to DC we stopped at an amusement park with swimming and music playing in a dance hall. We had come to eat dinner and dance. I was not a dancer-type to begin with, but it was still pretty frustrating when I asked three girls to dance with me and not one of them accepted my invitation! One of these, a girl named Penny from my junior homeroom, I actually had feelings for. In another life, I would have lost my virginity to her, but not in this life. The other two girls were classmates. We knew each other! But what does a fellow do when your own classmates (the girls, at any rate) won’t even dance with you? I was pretty chagrined by the ordeal. Not that it affected me for life (probably not) but a fellow just begins to wonder what the HECK is the point of getting your nose bloodied (metaphorically speaking) by people you thought were decent folks? And I’ve about concluded that those who have to ask that question are the people who have no business on the dance floor.Except for the dance floor debacle, the time in DC was great fun. We took an early morning train to New York City.
     Only a few memories stand out. One was that I should have taken more pictures. We visited the Statue of Liberty, Radio City Music Hall where Hayley Mills, starring in "The Chalk Garden" was playing, and we saw the Rockettes. We also had lunch at the world-famous Automat, the novelty of which did not impress me as much as others.
     The day we went en mass to the World’s Fair, waaaaay outside the city, we were carefully lectured on how to return to our hotel: what subway to take, and to be sure to get off at the end of the line into the city. Seemed easy enough.
The fair boasted the General Motors pavilion where the song "It’s a Small World After All" originated. It also had the fountain with the large globe structure in the middle of it. Bob Gilbert and I roamed the place on our own. When we met some cirls at the fountain, Bob asked me to go along with him and say we were from Chicago. I thought it was a silly idea; what the heck was wrong with saying we were from Springfield? But I went along with him. And we had some nice conversation fountainside.
     Even though Dad had obtained tickets for three of my good friends, everyone else wanted to stay at the fair. Only I wanted to return, and I made the trip solo. I didn’t feel nervous about this, but as we continued heading toward the city, I began to be worried that I would miss my exit. Like an idiot, I left the subway, imagining I could get my bearings and ask someone to help me get to where I needed to go. I left the train and climbed a stairway that emptied onto a platform that seemed to be in the middle of a large, desolate area with no tall buildings and few buildings of any kind visible. In the distance, I saw the skyline of the city. NEAR PANIC! I headed back down the stairs and saw a fellow who looked like a dark-complectioned Mediterranean type with sunglasses and slicked back hair – maybe Italian, I don’t know. I explained my situation to him and he told me to get back on the next train to come in. I asked about train fare, and he said I didn’t need it; just get on, and get off at the end of the line.
     A new train came up as he said this, and I thanked him and boarded. Only after we were rolling did I realize how close I could have come to an early death or worse. This guy could have robbed me and killed me, and nobody would have noticed me missing until morning. THIS time, I got off at the right time, and had no trouble finding the hotel where I cleaned up and headed for the theater a short walk away.
     There was a big crowd around a theater I encountered en route to "A Funny Thing" with mounted police. I was told Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton would be arriving soon. He was starring there in a production of Shakespeare’s "Macbeth." I saw them get out of a limo and walk up the red carpet, but I didn’t have time to hang around.
     My destination was like most theaters of that city: very impressive. Zero Mostel had been replaced by Dick Shawn in the lead role, but it was still a wonderful production. Great laughs, terrific music. Beyond hearing that it was a funny show, I knew nothing about this one. Still, I laughed a lot. My ticket was two rows behind the orchestra pit, seat 2. And I enjoyed the show with three empty seats adjacent to me. I was absolutely mesmerized and delighted. The walk back to the hotel was also interesting.
     We visited China Town the next day. On the way, the tour guide pointed out Tiffany’s jewelry store that inspired the movie "Breakfast at Tiffany’s." China Town was not real impressive. I bought some inexpensive art there, which I held onto for years, but it did not make a lasting impression.
     I don’t remember anything about the trip back to Springfield. We made it. And I had a great time.
     Later in the summer, an incident occurred at home which became a popular story I never tired of telling until one day in senior speech class when I made a speech out of it and lost a friend.
     Brother Bill continued to be the chronic "Peck’s bad boy" of the family. One summer morning after arising late, I heard more than a typical ruckus in the basement and went down to investigate. Four or five friends of Bill had come over, each bringing a jar or two full of booze liberated from their parents’ liquor cabinets. Later I learned Bill had taken Seagram’s whiskey from Mom and Dad’s modest collection of brown bottles and replaced it with water, fooling neither of them. Bill and accomplices were a little concerned about me blabbing the story of their gathering to Mom and Dad when they came home from work late in the afternoon, so they offered me my share to drink. Deal! For about an hour I resembled a regular 16 year old kid, sipping gin, mostly, and getting along okay with the younger kids in the basement, listening to music on the hi fi.
     A few months earlier, my friend Tadd Baumann’s parents had given him, as a birthday present, a new, green Karmann Ghia convertible, an Italianesque Volkswagen. He took great pride in the car, and washed it at least three times a week, or seemed to. And why not? It was a terrific car, we had gone for cruises around Lake Springfield several times with it, with the top down of course, and he loved the car.
     It didn’t take long for me to drink my fill of swill with Bill, and I almost crawled up the stairs, intending to sit in the back yard and get some air. Instead, I called Tadd and said something like, Tadd, there you are over there with your beautiful brand new Karmann Ghia and here I am over here about drunk out of my mind!" I wasn’t angry or ill, it was a philosophic observation. Tadd heard my observation as a cry for help, and good friend that he was, said he’d be right over.
We went for a spin around Lake Springfield and ended up at Zayre’s at Capital City Shopping Center. As always, the first place we went was to the toy department to see if there were any new plastic models on the shelves. Nope. Then to the car care aisle where Tadd was looking over the array of car polishes.
     This is where I lost consciousness and collapsed. When I returned to the land of the living, I was being assisted by a store manager into a chair they had brought over. Nearby was a pool of clear liquid that smelled like gin. I was mumbling a lie about having epilleptic seizures, and that I was sorry I had messed up their nice aisle, and they were telling me not to worry, everything was going to be okay. In minutes I was walking with an embarrassed friend back to the car, and in no time I had been deposited safely at home, on my feet in the driveway. Tadd wasn’t mad; just concerned, and I was no longer nauseous; just a little sleepy. It was about 11:30.
    I went in and lay down on the living room sofa and briefly napped. Something awakened me, and when I looked out the front window, I could see Mom arriving home for a surprise lunchtime visit. Even though I was surprised, I was not concerned. As she pulled into the back of the driveway and went inside, I went out the front door, walked back to the back yard, got on my bicycle and pedaled down the drive and out and around for a 10 minute wandering journey, mostly to clear my head.
     When I came in the back door, Mom was livid over encountering Bill and friends and the smell of booze in the basement. The friends had already departed. I reacted like the who affair was news to me. Bill didn’t blow the whistle on me, and parents never knew I was a willing participant in the drinking.
    As an adult, I would interface with alcohol in ways that suggested I was a far stupider human being than most people imagined me to be. I would suffer from overdoing the drinking on more than one occasion, and embarrass more friends. But booze has never lost me a friend, and it has never lost me an employer. I was so proficient in generating those outcomes without brash brews and distillates that attributing any of those many outcomes to liquor is like blaming what the elephant deposited on my life for the aroma I seem to exude, even unsaturated by such soakings, to too many people. Even without the elephant’s contribution to humanity’s olfactory contribution to my character, I would smell the same.

to be continued . . .
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