Jingle Man's Alibi -- Chapter 5 
Senior Year, SHS through SJC/SCI

        In many ways, my senior year at SHS was my happiest. For one thing there was the variety show I almost played at, which I will describe later in this chapter.
        The Zoology Class ignominy, which had clung to me like mock pizza pie sauce on a shirt, had almost disappeared by my senior year. There was a sense of hope for the future and pride in being a senior at SHS. My next door neighbor, Bill Wilson, had warned me over the summer about English teacher Jim Andrews. He explained Andrews had a habit of launching into an imitation of a dive bomber without apparent provocation. Bill also explained that while the man was something of a loose cannon, he was a good teacher and great fun in class. As luck would have it, I found myself enrolled in Jim Andrews' English class at 7:30 am, and in his speech class during my final period at 2:30 pm. It was a good situation most of the year.
    Seniors didn't have to take physical education if they didn't want to, and I chose not to. Albee Plain was a great guy. I just did not enjoy changing into gym clothes and working hard for half an hour, only to have to shed the shorts and shower and return to class for the rest of the day. And I didn't get fat or pathetically out of shape by missing that class.
    Other classes that year included Geometry -- teacher's name (a woman's) lost to faded grey matter -- more Spanish class with Mrs. Valencia Houston,  and the Civics with Mr. Green.
     I wrote a lot of poetry, especially after things got rolling at First Methodist Church. Not all of it was religious and a lot was simple whimsy. I filled three notebooks with poems and notes for poems my senior year, and would often pass around copies of new poems in acapella choir.
    . In Andrews' English class, I was a top scorer with spelling tests and the kind of things that mattered in English. It required work, but it was work I enjoyed. His Speech class was something any sentient being could have sleep-walked through for a C. It wasn't that easy for me. Although I usually received Bs on my speeches, two incredibly brainless (on MY part) incidents stand out. One was a speech I made about getting looped on my brother's Mason jar booze -- which I described in Chapter 4. It was the kind of speech no high school senior should make because it was such an immature topic, even talking about it in public should have earned me a month of detention after school. I shared the story, mentioned Tad Bauman and the part he played in it, and when I sat down, Andrews was really upset with me. He announced to the class that the speech I had jjst finished had earned me an F - failure grade. Looking back, I know why I deserved it, but at the time, I just laughed it off. I knew I would do better with other speeches, and I did. Word of that speech reached my friend Tad, and he didn't speak to me for the rest of senior year. Another speech I gave -- which also earned me an F -- described how Jan W -- my first really maturing girlfriend -- and I were separated for good when her mom discovered her bicycle parked against my front porch during the summer between my sophomore and junior years. This speech, as tasteless as the drunk speech, though I left most embarrassing details out if it, was made extempraneously when Jan transferred into my speech class in second semester if I remember correctly. SHE left the room in tears when it became obvious to all what I was describing and included her name. So I earned the F for that speech. Others, better made about more tasteful subjects would follow. And we all survived.
      Mom, who left early for work at City Hall where she worked in the Purchasing Department of the Commissioner of Public Finance, initially Inez Hoffman (an icon of leadership and integrity) -- about 7:15 -- or one of the Wilsons who lived next door to the south of us would transport me to school along with Steve and Bill Wilson. After school, I'd often walk home, an almost straight shot south down New and Henrietta to South Grand and a short jog to the east to Whittier and straight down to 2016.           
       Occasionally, I'd go by Roberts Bros. mens' clothing store on the north side of the square, just to say hi to Dad. The place was something of an obstacle course for me. Usually Rich Roberts, one of the second generation of the family, probably in his 30s or early 40s would greet me as I walked into the store. His father Joe (everyone called him "Mr. Joe:), an older gentleman in his 60s was always at the entry to the stairs going up to the second floor. He also greeted me with a wave and a smile, but never any more than that, which is about reasonable for a high school kid. Dad would often be in the boy's room on the first floor, or in the shoe department in the back of the first floor. Sometimes he'd be in the office area at the back of the second flloor or in the suits area on second floor or the Gaslight Room -- his creation which the Roberts liked and installed -- for college kids. It was the hippest place in the store.
           Other days I'd walk downtown and hang out at the library and ride home with Mom who was off at 4:30. Sometimes, I'd take the bus home, boarding it at Monroe at Lewis, and transferring to the South Fifth and Lowell bus in front of Myers department store. To the south of Myers was a Woolworth five and ten cent store, and on the corner of that block was a large Kresge department store that had a grill and a nice selection of plastic model kits. That block of Springfield was a flurry of activity as busses with kids from the Catholic AND the public schools let kids off and transferring kids boarded them for home between 3:30 and 3:35 every school day of the year.
      My junior-year positive experience with Junior Achievement, was repeated my senior year. Through whatever channels that were operating at the time, I was notified they would be organizing for another academic year at the YMCA, and I was invited to be a part of the activities. I started attending meetings and was amazed by how the kids and advisors in the group I was assigned to agreed with my ideas, chose the "company" name I suggested and elected me PRESIDENT of the company.
     Unfortunately for Junior Achievement, I also became involved with the Methodist Youth Fellowship (MYF) at First United Methodist Church downtown at Fifth at Capitol, thanks in large part to the urging of my friend Bob Gilbert. I also joined the choir at that time and started singing on Sunday mornings under the leadership of Paul Koch, pronounced Cook. He was an outstanding choir director, in the same league as Sprecklemeyer at SHS. Choir met Thursday nights at church. I believe, and MYF met on Wednesday nights under the leadership of the incredible youth minister George Embry, who became another icon to me. The church involvement meant I had to drop out of Junior Achievement, and while I hated the idea of leaving J.A. after becoming president of my "own company,"  there was really no regret. I found worlds of wonder at MYF under Embree  and choir under Koch. As a member of MYF I attended my first "retreat" over the Christmas holdays at a retreat lodge in Buffalo Hart, Illinois. It was an epiphany, the first of many spiritual plateaus that I reached in those precious months which would extend into my freshman days at Springfield Junior College, later renamed Springfield Cpllege. in Illinois. I wrote my first "Christian" poetry during the December 1964 retreat at Buffalo Hart, and this achievement led to many poems relating to my faith and relating to other non-secular subjects as well. I took my brand new Gibson J-50 guitar -- which Mom and Dad gave me on Christmas 1964 -- and I played (strummed) songs during parts of the retreat. It was a magic, unforgettable time, that has not been surpassed during the rest of my life. The MYF became my core of life, almost the only people I cared about. So I wasn't in love with anyone! I didn't miss what I didn't understand.
     Several of the group attended retreats and lectures by prominent Methodist leaders, including a summer camp in Michigan, and a winter night lecture in Bloomington, I believe, by noted thinker Nels Ferre. I was astounded by this fellow! He taught me to believe that God is not definable in conventional terms. "God is IS!" I still believe this. Another great fellow was Brother Mandus whose favorite way to begin a major point was by saying "THANKyou, FAther!" I still say "thankyou father" often during the day when my life is going right, and no, I've not said it much at all in the past 12 years. In fact, I'm surprised I remember this much at all. Divine assistance? I BET it is, and I'm not a gambler! (THANKyou father!)
     Thanks to classmates Bob Gilbert and C.J. Sutton, I joined the local DeMolay chapter -- young Masons. Studied the lore and was inducted into the order as a life member. The secret ceremony was impressive and very touching. Attended meetings for awhile. Met a girl named Barb L. and dated her a few times. Even tramped through about four inches of falling snow from my house to her parents' house on south Ninth Street one winter night. Her dad drove me home. After a few dates, Barb and I had a falling out when, during a DeMolay meeting, I discovered my pal Bob Gilbert was dating her! I was really crushed, but would always remember Barb's excellent advice to me the last time we talked.
     She told me that lots of girls would smile at me and enjoy my company and conversation, and that was great, but that I should not think that just because I'd find myself getting along with a young woman for a few dates or because she seemed really glad to see me, that was no reason for me to imagine a girl was getting serious about me. It was all part of the fun of girls getting to know boys and vice versa. As long as I didn't fall head over heels with anyone who smiled at me, I'd have fun. It was excellent advice, but I was a poor learner. For the rest of my life I would lust for warm regard from the other gender: not just the physical side, but the emotional side as well, and because I always wanted both, and because I would settle for neither element alone without the other, I would be single and alone most of the rest of my life. And even though Bob Gilbert had "stolen my goil" we remained friends for years afterwards.
     I also took Methodist confirmation class at senior pastor Joe Albrecht's house on Walnut at about Williams. The goal was to become a member of First Methodist Church. This was before they inserted the word "United" into the official nomenclature after merging with another faith, some time in the late 60s, I believe. Learned a lot about the Methodist faith and came to especially appreciate the Wesleyan Quadrilateral, a keystone of the faith that makes my chosen denomination more precious to me than it otherwise might be. After completing significant study over probably six weeks, I was incredibly surprised and quietly, secretly DISMAYED when Pastor Albrecht (a genius, a rock of a man), reading from the liturgy as he presented my confirmation class to the congregation (sort of a graduation aknowledgement) said ". . . . and having been baptized in the faith, we rejoice in welcoming you to the ..." or something like that. What dismayed me was the fact I had not been baptized. My parents later confirmed this when I asked them. They didn't attend the church service. I never saw Mom in church. Later I learned Mom was a Baptist and Dad was a Methodist -- or it might have been the other way around. I was happy to be a Methodist -- IF IN FACT, THAT IS WHAT I AM, CONSIDERING HOW -- DESPITE MY CONFIRMATION CLASS GRADUATION -- I WAS NOT BAPTIZED.      For the rest of my life I would believe my connection to CHRISTIANITY is a fraud because of the baptism issue. I would add to my fraudulent credentials toward the end of my senior year, which I will describe now.....
      As second semester got rolling, I wrote a poem "'Twas the Night of the Prom" which was based loosely on "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" which told the fictional story of how I got into some heavy petting with a girl whose bustline was mostly foam padding at Washington Park the night of the prom. I made probably ten copies of the doggerel, each in longhand, and sold them all for 15 cents apiece!.Everyone knew about this high school masterpiece -- there was nothing obscene beyond the uhappy surprise; no activity below the belts. I was not called into the office.   At the end of the senior year, many remembered the poem and remarked about it when the signed my yearbook.
       By senior year Christmas, I had been through two guitars. My first had been given to me by Mom and Dad when I was in Sixth Grade (a $15.95 Kay instrument) and Greg Pease gave me a slightly guitar when I was in Eighth Grade. Thanks to Greg, probably five years older than me and a blossoming master of the folk guitar, I learned how to scratch pick and Travis pick my better guitar. Later, Bill Wilson would teach me what early Bob Dylan was doing with his picking style.
      I learned how to play guitar pretty well for a high school folksinger. On the same Christmas when parents gave me a natural-finish Gibson J-50, Jim Richardson's parents gave him a Gibson J-50 with a cherry finish. Soon after, we formed a folk group adding 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 senior, 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.
      Since my sophomore 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. During the brief interlude between my recovery from the illness and the big show,  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.
      A major irony occurred as graduation approached in the Spring. My Civics teacher, MISTER C.B. Green seemed to respect each other, and in the main, I was doing okay in his class. One day as he lectured, he noticed me reading an Air Progress magazine at my desk. He approached as he continued his lecture, lifted the magazine from my desk and walked back to his desk with it. I was stunned. He explained that he'd give it back to me at the end of the year. I was crushed!
     We had to pass tests  that proved our proficiencies in the US constitution AND the Illinois constitution; separate tests, to get our graduation diploma from SHS. . I did fine with the US document, in part because I believe we had also studied it in junior high. I FAILED my Illinois constitution test. During a second attempt a week later, I also failed it. MR. Green gave me a third chance to pass, and for this occasion he left the room. I was the only student in the room, the only one in that particular class who had failed twice. After answering most of the questions, and not being sure at all that I would pass the thing, I took out my copy of the Illinois constitution, which I had brought into the room with my other books,  and consulted it. I couldn't have cheated more blatantly if I had done it on stage during a school assembly! I left my completed test on his desk and I departed the room feeling non-human. That non-human feeling has been with me -- in greater and lesser degrees -- since that day. No matter what other achievements I have achomplished, I have always known that by any stretch of the imagination, I was a fraud; not because I had spent my Chicago Daily News collection money on Hire's root beer and Swift's premium hot dogs at Sears during my paper boy days; not because I swiped coins from mom's purse when I'd come home for lunch when I was in grade school, but because I cheated on my Illinois constitution test.
     At the end of the academic year, just a few weeks after my final go at the Illinois constitution test, MR. Green returned my Air Progress magazine to me, and I still have it in the AeroKnow magazine collection.
     My poem, "The Methodist Retreat" and other poems and songs written in the few months after the December event led to the MYF producing an Easter publication of devotional writings from many MYF members. Pastor George Embree described in the introduction how my first poem written during the Methodist retreat at Buffalo Hart, had inspired others, and that we were all writing some truly inspired poems and essays. I seemed to always have a new poem at MYF meetings, and receptions for the religious and tamer poems were always self-affirming and gratifying. The reactions inspired me to write more poetry.
      My poem "Afraid of the Dark" was also printed in a Central Baptist church publication. Scott Weber came to me during a study hall in the SHS auditorim and asked me for permission to reprint it after he read it in the Methodist Easter devotional publication.
      In springtime1965, before the old Lincoln Library at 7th at Capitol was demolished to make way for the newer, less impressive version, my thoughts began to wander toward Senior Prom and who the hey I would take to the event. I found the answer in Joyce Elaine Mitchell -- a consistently positive force in my life while it lasted, which is why I remember her entire name in this autobiography. We met while studying at the library and nneaking admiring gazes at each other from separate tables. Soon after she arose to head out, I also arose to do likewise, and to my surprise, encountered her in the vestibule, waiting for her ride. We talked, she gave me her number and I called her soon after that.
     I had asked Chris Burkhart to the Senior Prom during a MYF retreat earlier that spring, and she accepted. As soon as I met Joyce and realized how well we seemed to mesh. (Nothing more than necking, ever.) I let Chris B. know I could not take her to the prom, and Chris seemed to be okay with it. We never saw each other or spoke to each other  again.
     A major highlight of my senior year with MYF was the graduation dinner held in the church basement for graduating seniors. George Embree asked me to write a song with verses for each senior. I did, and performed it (from lyrics visible at the podium) during the festivities. I still remember names -- Vicki Baptist, Karen Wilde, Dan Davis, Bob Gilbert, Bonnie Shull,  Lacreda Wormer, Idalee Dietrich, Steve Grummon, Bill Haas, Dave Tuxhorn . . . I'm sure there were others, every one good folks.
     Prom was dream made reality. I bought a corsage for Joyce, and had it delivered to her door, a few days before, picked her up and went to the dance. I don't remember taking her to dinner, but I might have. The latest incarnation of the Glenn Miller Band was playing at the Illinois Building at the state fairgrounds for the prom dance. We arrived -- me in white coat and cumberbund and her in formal as well -- watched people dance for awhile and departed for Prairie Run Amusement Park where we had a terrific time also, with less music and noise. After sitting in my car, and necking and talking for hours, we drove out to the Springfield Muni Opera grounds -- if I remember correctly -- and watched the sun come up about 6:30. Then I took her home.
    Joyce Mitchell attended my high school graduation ceremony with my parents at the Illinois State Armory, June 6, 1965. We continued to talk ravenously over the phone for hours at a time, and dated each other exclusively. She became a counselor at the Catholic Youth Organization summer camp, and we corresponded via post office as though she was in Paris,. I visited her once at camp and had a great visit. It was obvious we were drifting apart as the summer wore on. We met at the fairgrounds during the Illinois State Fair, and we decided to go our separate ways after coming together one last time at the Grand Stand. She departed my presence in something of a hurry that night and only after a follow-up phone call did she explain to me that she left in a rush because she was on the verge of tears. The reason for the breakup was that I was wanting more than necking, and she didn't want to gp further than that. I must say, she was an absolutely Sterling silver woman (girl) and I even appreciated her parents. To this day, I cannot drive by the house she lived in on far south Second Street without looking at the driveway and imagining my parents' 1959 Buick Electra parked there as I visited inside. Three or four years later, while attending MacMurray College in Jacksonville, I learned from a friend who knew Joyce's current circumstances, that Joyce had married and had a couple of kids by that time. I WISHED, when I learned this, that Joyce (who signed her letters to me "Elaine" - another beautiful name) and I had NOT broken up, but I realized it was for the best that we did.
      Jim Richardson and I were the best of friends my senior year. He was an incredible intellect who studied math like it was the word of GOD. He WORKED at it, and he was doing college-level calculus while I was struggling through junior-level geometry. Still, we shared a love for aviation, folk music and guitar.
     Jim suggested we take a trip to The Alhonna Resort at Bagnell Dam,  Lake of the Ozarks before college started. He knew where to go, and I was absolutely up for the trip. We towed his15 foot sport motorboat behind us, and we elected to depart my parents' house for the journey. He had wanted to be on the road by 5 am but I wanted to be on the road earlier, so I altered the time on the alarm clock. We hit the sack early and were pulling away from the curb when he realized it was more like 2:00, and that was okay with him by that time. It was an easy trip into the hill country of central Missouri. Jefferson City was still in darkness when we passed through. Gill and Doris(forgot their last names) were not even up and out for the day when we pulled into the parking lot a little after 7 am, knocked on the main cabin front door and announced we were ready to check into our cabin.
    The rest of the trip was fantastic. Lots of time on the lake, eating at restaurants located all over the lake and some cooking at the cabin but not much. Met some new friends from Lebo, Kansas, cattle people who always came down in the late summer. Got to know them pretty well and they talked to me as though I was a younger brother, really one of the family. Also met a girl about a year or two older than me: Nancy was staying at a cabin with her mom and dad, and she was returning to college at the University of Iowa, DesMoines. She was a very good-looking blonde and a fairly serious, clearly intelligent, and I could have fallen head over heels if she had dared to smile at me.
     I was so tied, emotionally, to the Methodist Youth Fellowship in Springfield that on the first Wednesday night when Jim and I were at The Alhonna, I called First Methodist when I knew they'd be eating dinner in the church basement, and spoke to George and one or two of the gang. In retrospect, it seems incredibly silly of me to have made the call. I wasn't insecure at the resort; just incredibly friendly and appreciative of the guys and gals at MYF.
    During the vacation, I discovered (as an underage 17 year old) I did not enjoy the taste of beer, though this is what everyone else was drinking out by the boats, and up at the cabins most of the time. When I could get it in the company of these friendly adults who were generous with their alcohol, I discovered I preferred whiskey, and I drank as much of it and as often as I could during the two weeks I was there. One of the Lebo, Kansas friends took me aside during a party at their cabin and gave me some good advice. He said I should not enjoy whiskey as much as I apparently did. He said that whiskey was dangerous, and that if I drank a lot of it as a young person, I would find myself getting into deep trouble as an adult. He advised me to learn to like beer and stay with it. I did not understand him at the time, but I do at age 56 as I write these words. And I did stay away from whiskey during my twenties. I gravitated toward wine, always in moderation during the college years, and I didn't really enjoy beer until I was in my 30s. Gil and his wife -- and the cattle people from Lebo, Kansas and Nancy -- were in the top 10 percent of  the nicest adults I have ever met. I will never forget their spirit, their consistent conviviality and their excellent thinking.They were wonderful people, and I miss them to this day - which is saying a lot for a two week encounter in the summer of 1965!
    

Springfield Junior College -- Freshman
     I don't know how I was accepted there, but I was glad that I was. This was a positive time for me. From the start, I took the city bus to downtown, got off at the northeast corner of Monroe at Sixth and walked a block with bus transfer in hand to board a college-bound bus at the northeast corner of Adams at Sixth. The same college-bound bus carried MANY Ursuline Academy students (all girls in white blouses and dark plaid uniforms and white socks and school-approved shoes)  headed for their high school, next door to SJC.
    In 1965, the school library was in a large room on the north side of the main building; the bookstore was on the ground floor of an 18th Century house which now holds the president's office and administrative offices upstairs and rentable reception rooms on the ground floor. The Charles Becker Library was started this year and completed the next. I was happily engaged in classes at the main building at in the former Cathedral High School building a few blocks to the east. Spanish, English, Logic and I don't remember what else. As a Protestant, I didn't have to attend the retreats which were mandatory for Catholic students. Those of Catholic faith, especially the nuns and priests, were exceptionally kind to me every day I attended. Sister Loyola, an English teacher who liked my poetry, Sister Rita, my Spanish teacher, Father Switak who later taught me Ethics, and a few others, really hard nosed, tough teachers and I got along great.
         Here I heard a folk group called The Coachmen and replaced C.H. Moore, who was one of the original three. Tony T., Steve and I played probably one concert -- if that many -- before I was jettisoned. The reason why was easy: I wanted to practice during a practice we had at my parents' home basement, and they wanted to make out with the two girls they brought over. At the end of the evening, after practicing very little, I shared my hope that we would concentrate on music next time. There would be no next time. Though we had auditioned for the Griffin High School talent show that fall, and passed the audition, I did not play the concert. I was history. Jim Richardson, who was attending SJC, and I still played and practiced a few times, and played one variety show later in the year in the former Cathedral High gym.
       C.H. Moore and I became friends and we often jammed under an apple tree between the main SJC building and the music building, a short walk away.
        At the same time, I started dating Sylvia Lytle, daughter of a new associate pastor at First Methodist. She and her family lived in a church-owned house on the northeast corner of Noble at Laurel, a wonderful house, and her parents were solid gold, good people. Syl and I got along great, and I drove to the Illinois State University, 60 miles away in Normal, Illinois. Never any overnights, but great fun with superb company.
        Without sharing details, it's worth remembering that my favorite place to park with female company was along the perimeter road at Capital Airport. The runway lights were like stars, and when the weather was warm, the breeze and night sounds were as enjoyable as the good company. For a change of "place" one night, we tried the parking lot as far distant from the terminal as we could get, not brightly lit, with even fewer passing headlights than the perimeter road, and closer to civilization, hundreds of feet away. One night, we heard, rather than saw, tires rolling to a stop on the gravel nearby, and saw a flashlight approaching, attached to a Springfield Police officer who good naturedly invited us to leave the parking lot. In an inspired moment, I told him a lie: said I was new to the area, and asked, in his opinion, what was the best place for a guy and a gal to park in the city. He suggested the road in Washington Park, the one that ran by the tennis courts. We thanked him for his advice, and we drove directly to the road that runs by the tennis courts at Washington Park. We had been there 20 minutes when we saw a familiar flashlight approaching and the same officer, advised us to move on. I spoke to him like he was a long-lost high school friend: "Officer, this is US! Don't you remember from the airport? You TOLD us this would be a good place to park!" He recognized us and apologized as though he had insulted the mayor: "Gosh, I'm sorry, buddy! You're right! You just stay right here, and I won't bother you again, I promise!" We shared a terrific laugh over this, and since the romantic spell had been  shattered, we headed for home, glad that we we had encountered a policeman with a sense of humor, and confident we'd find other places and times for back-seat gymnastics in the future.
    Sylvia and I went our separate ways early into new school year, though I did visit her a few times. Her dad was transferred to a church in Arthur, Illinois. A few years later, I found myself in Arthur selling Encyclopaedia Britannica, and understood from a customer that the Lytles were still there. I didn't try to reach them; figured Sylvia was probably married with children by then, and I left the town silently wishing her and her parents the best.
     I also visited my friend Bob Gilbert who also attended ISU. During my first visit, he introduced me to Merle Murray and his wife who owned a hobby shop across the main street from the ISU campus. Merle and I struck up a friendship that lasted 25 years. Downtown Train & Hobbies would relocated in downtown Bloomington soon after that first encounter, and for many years, well past the college days, I'd drive up to purchase most of my aviation materials from him. There were two reasons for this: Springfield had no hobby shops from the demise of Hobby House Toyland across the street from the Orpheum Theater on Fifth Street and Tip Top Hobby Shop on north Walnut until Dizzyland opened on Wabash. There were hobby departments at Black Hardware, downtown and on MacArthur, but they didn't carry the variety Merle stocked. Another reason I supported Merle was that he supported my aviation collection with discounts on merchandise and free, discarded aviation magazines. He was a saint in this regard and an early major factor in the launch of the aviation collection that would be known as AIRCHIVE, and later as AeroKnow.
       Bob Gilbert was a super fellow during the ISU days, supportive of my songwriting and aviation interests. In high school, I built a few plastic models for his father Eugene, who had flown B-17s in the ETO during World War II. Though Gene Gilbert and I never talked in detail about his flying days, he was an icon, a hero to me. Just knowing what he had done, made him so.
      Meanwhile, back in Springfield at SJC, I had some challenging classes, especially Mr. Lauglin who taught logic at the former Cathedral High School building, a short walk east of the main campus. Mr. Oder was a superb Biology teacher! I'm sure the history teacher, whose name I have forgotten, was smart enough, but he reminded me too much of a serious Charles Nelson Reilly to really work for. This was always a problem with me: if I LIKED a teacher, I'd work hard.  I started dating a cheerleader named Anita. She played flute very well also. Over the Christmas season, I played guitar and accompanied her when she played some Christmas music for her Sunday School class at a north side Presbyterian church. Also, during that Christmas, I took a part time job selling boys cloths at JC Penney on the south side of the square downtown. Anita had a part time job at Bressmers, a short walk from Penneys. We would often meet for dinner at Steak 'n' Shake which had moved from its original Monroe location, between Third and Fourth, to Sixth Street, between Monroe and Adams.
       Lust life aside, playing guitar with C.H. Moore aside, teaching guitar to an eager young lady whose name I can't remember in the abandoned basement chemistry lab at the former Cathedral High School while junior college classes were taught upstairs aside, my academic life was suffering. By the time we broke for the holidays, I was convinced I was going to flunk out. To survive that unhappy inevitability, I visited the United States Air Force Recruiter whose office was on the north side of Adams, between Fourth and Fifth Streets. I explained the circumstance, and he explained his. If I was leaving school, I could not be inducted into the air force and start training before April 1966. With the Vietnam War building daily, young men were enlisting in the air force to avoid serving in the US Army. Thinking was that there were no foot soldiers in the air force, and even though  USAF enlistments were longer than time in the army, chances of coming home intact were better in the air force and navy. Without being sworn in, I asked the recruiter to put me on the waiting list. How I would survive living at home after flunking out of school, until I could get the heck out of town was anyone's guess. During this time -- late November -- I took some aptitude tests given to potential recruits so I could select a preferred MOS (method of service). The grades from these tests showed I had an aptitude for photo interpretation -- which meant a likely assignment to an intelligence or recon unit of some kind -- AND an aptitude that could lead to service as an air traffic controller -- which meant I'd get to be on the ground, directing traffic in and out of air fields, not necessarily in a combat zone. The latter had greatest appeal to me since it could be used in civilian life as well. So that's how things stood with my life until one day in December.
     Though Anita was a cheerleader, I was not a sports fan, especially not a basketball fan. But I picked her up after a few games, and we'd go grab a bite. Over the holidays, Anita brought along some nuns who had asked for a ride back to their convent. I was happy to oblige, especially when I saw my Spanish teacher, Sister Rita. "Well, senior Conger,  I guess I'll be seeing you again in another week or so," she said as she settled into the back seat. I was surprised. I had expected notice from the college to arrive any day, announcing my abject incapacity to continue. "Oh no," she replied. "You'd be put on probation first and then released if you didn't do better after another semester. You are still with us."
     The following Monday I flew back to my air force recruiter with the horrible news. "I thought I was flunking out, and I'm not, and I'm sorry because of all you've done for me. What do we do now? Can I stay in school?" The recruiter was all smiles. "Job, there are 20 people waiting to take your place on the waiting list. You're under no obligation to the air force. Have a great time at school!" What a gentleman! Still, I have always regretted not serving in the air force, THE natural choice for me. I have never met anyone who did not have my greatest respect for serving in uniform. No matter what other frailties he or she might have had, making that contribution (those who didn't take "leaves of absence" to help with political campaigns, at any rate) merits my respect, and I am grateful to share it.
      Among the many "gifts" Anita shared was given to me in second semester: one of the worst cases of infectious mononucleosis my doctor (Eveloff) had ever seen. I was bedridden almost solidly for two weeks between visits to Dr. Eveloff. The good doctor strongly urged my parents to have me admitted to the hospital, the episode was so bad. And it was absolutely no fun. It was almost impossible for me to swallow for several days, and I was so tired I could barely move. But I came out of it, unfortunately not in time to catch up with the rest of my class in second semester. College administrators allowed me back for the next September.
    Over the summer, Jim and a woman whose name I have forgotten, formed a folk group whose name I have forgotten. We played a party at the Washington Park Pavillion and a "hootenanny" at the Old State Capitol. Radio station WCVS' Jim Palmer was emcee of the event, and we knew we were going to play. Like an idiot, about 30 seconds before we went on the air, I leaned over to Palmer, who knew me from other occasions, and said JIM, let US open your show for you. The rest of the group, standing nearby, came over to the microphones when I motioned them over and in less than six minutes into the show, playing from the top of the steps leading up to the front door of the place, we were done. About half an hour later, I learned NOBODY EVER WANTS to be the opening act, and I really had goofed. But I never goofed -- that way -- again.
     The rest of the summer was uneventful. No love life, no liquor, no fun beyond occasional trips to Washington Park. I joined Civil Air Patrol at the urging of my friend Jerry Petersen, but I didn't last long. Marching in formation did not appeal to me. It all seemed over-serious to me, 16 and 17 year olds shouting liike drill sergeants.

Springfield Junior College -- Second Try
     I returned to SJC first semester for the 66/67 school year and was curious when I received a note when I was in Zoology lab class in mid-September, asking me to come downstairs and report to the college's Dean Messling.
    Messling wanted me gone from the school. He told me that teachers were surprised to see me back at SJC and concerned about my disruptive influence on classes. He explained I was always making smart alec remarks, not throwing spit balls, and not speaking profanely or obscenely, but interrupting classes with my snide repartee. I responded as though I was a convicted "criminal" pleading to a judge for mercy -- which, of course, I was. Told him I was truly sorry for my behavior, that I would alter my outlook starting NOW and that I would buckle down. Messling agreed to give me a second chance. I felt as though I had been given a reprieve from the electric chair! Facing my parents after being kicked out of college would have been unbearable. And I had NEVER been a prankster in grade, jr. high or high school. I was just a kid who seemed to see beyond the surface, and was compelled to point out what few others seemed to notice, a source of continual torment to many; and amusement to some. I was never violent, never a obscene, never one to eat his peas with a knife; just snide, and it was probably my snideness that cost me most dearly in lost friends and opportunities.
    Also early into the second try at SJC, I started working in the camera department of Goldblatt's department store at Town & Country Shopping center in Springfield. Bob Gray was the camera department manager, and we got along great. I enjoyed the work with cameras, learned a lot about them and with my own money, without asking Mom and Dad's permission, I bought my first 35mm camera: a Canon, which looked like an SLR but was not. It was still great fun. Dad especially, was furious when he learned about my new camera because he considered 35mm format very crude and substandard, especially since he had let me use his Rolleiflex for years.
     I was happy to buckle down at school, and it paid off.
     Soon after returning, the new Charles Becker Library was dedicated. Most of the book moving had been done when I was away from school, sick and recovering from mono. Miss Zimmerman, the school librarian had promised the previous semester to give me copies of a magazine called Space World. When I went to the new library and asked if she still had them, she explained that since I had stayed away from the library so long and hadn't helped with the move from the Brinkerhoff Home to the new facility, the deal was off. I explained that I had been away because I had been flat on my back with mono and missed the whole second semester, but she held firm. I did not get the magazines.
      Two new friends I met at SCI convinced me to move into a third bedroom of an upstairs they were renting from a couple named the Coffees, on Sixth Street across from Ursuline Academy which was next door to college. I had a bedroom to myself with room for a bed and desk. We shared a kitchen and bathroom.Things were fine for about two months, and I became a little obsessive about eating wheat germ. I put it in my chilli, ate it from the jar. The guys even wrote a song about how much I ate it.
     I met a girl named Pat who lived at Brescia Hall across from campus, and we went for walks and did a lot of talking, but never became serious. She did give me a sweat shirt, and I wrote a song about it. The chorus went . . .
        "Every night, I take you to bed.
        Talk about sensations, I really have a ball.
        Every night, I take you to bed,
        Even though you're at Brescia Hall"
             The happy conclusion was that "I snuggle with your sweatshirt to keep me warm...."
    I also wrote a song, inspired by a walk in Lincoln Park which Pat and I took during a light rain. I still remember every word to that song though I've not played it since 1966 and probably never will. It was Pat's song, and it always will be. For a while, it seemed I was getting a crush on any girl/woman named Pat or Linda  though I always wanted to fall in love with and marry an Anne or a Margaret. Don't know why. But I'm still dreaming. My brother Bill's second wife was an Anne. I never even went steady with an Anne, and somehow to this day (December 13, 2004) I feel a void in my heart where an Anne or Margaret should have been.
     Things turned sour with the Taylorville roomies and me soon after I brought over two aluminum and glass beer mugs Bob Gilbert had given me when he was working at the Playboy Club in Chicago the previous summer. I was surprised one morning to find soneone had scratched the rabbit's head logos engraved into the mugs. There was also some hostility expressed toward me, a little jealousy perhaps. Rather than tough it out with these guys, I simply started to move out. Took some things home one Friday night. When I returned Sunday and tried to get into the house for the rest of my things, I discovered the locks has been changed, and the Coffees told me I could not have the rest of my things back until I paid a $42 fee. I refused because I could not afford it, and I left my first 35mm camera there, the first large B-52 plastic model and some other models, and some magazines. Months later, I thought about knocking on the Coffee's door to see if I could still pay my money and get my things back, but I never did. I never saw them again. I never said a word to my two former friends, either.
      Life at church and MYF continued nicely. I dropped out of Church choir, and Pastor Embree seiously chastised me in hte all one afternoon, telling me that Paul Koch and the choir needed me, and that I should return. I didn't, but I silently appreciated how the loss of my froggy presence from that terrific bunch of people could generate the enlightened conversation with the youth pastor of the best damn Methodist Church in the county.
      I was no longer shooting my attitude off like a Roman candle, but my grades were no better than average. Had some great classes: English with a nun who really taught me discipline in writing, Spanish with Mr. Brown who replaced the retired Sister Rita, Betty Mayoral for Botany,  speech class with Mrs. Quigley.
        Soon after my return to SCI in the fall 1966,   Dad asked me to join him in the kitchen for a chat.He had received an offer from a major department store in Rockford, IL. They wanted him to leave Roberts Bros and join them. He  asked me what I thought. I explained that since Bill had joined the US Army, and I was going to college, and would probably find a place to stay and get a job with little effort, I had no problem with him and Mom heading north. He explained that Mom would probably not be moving. She did not want to move to Rockford and "leave all her friends" in Springfield. Dad was pretty hurt, that he meant so little to Mom.   It looked like a divorce was inevitable. NUTS.
     Sometime in early 1967 at Goldblatt's a friend I knew from MYF, Dale Neal came by and told me about a new coffee house that had a special room for acoustic guitar players and singers to perform. It was called The Something Else, and it was located on the northeast corner of Fourth at Capitol, a three story red brick walkup that would be demolished in about two years though we didn't know it at the time. I visited the next night, and as long as it was open -- about 9 months, maybe, every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night -- I was there playing guitar and hanging out. This was as close to music heaven as I'd ever get.
    I don't remember how I met her, but I started dating a girl named Mickey. Her actual name was Mary, but she hated that  name -- What's wrong with Mary? I don't know. -- and considering how bright and fine company she was, I'd have called her Dolifaria Kadoodlepark if she had asked. We spent a terrific Thanksgiving together at my growing up house when my parents were visiting my sister Dorothy and her family in Wheeling, WV -- probably my best ever Thanksgiving. EVEN THOUGH there was no hanky panky. . . . . . well to be completely honest, there was some hanky, but absolutely no banky!
We also went to the SCI Prom together. Again, I was Mr. White Coat and cumberbund, and had a great time though beyond pictures at Mickey's house, I have no memory of what happened. She lived with an older guardian on North Marland Avenue, walking distance from SCI.
     It was a sad day for me when I said goodbye to Mickey at the Greyhound Bus station at the end of second semester. I still have a picture I took of her in front of the bus that says "Chicago" in the marquee above the windshield. As I understood it, she was working at a special religious project to help the poor up there. I thought I'd not see her ever again when she left, though we did talk to each other once or twice over the phone.
   A woman named Carole, whom I encountered at the Something Else began to play a more important role in my life. She was older, divorced, a special ed teacher, great fun, and her father was a certified flight instructor! We saw each other steadily pretty fast and continued through the summer and for the next few years.
    Over the summer, I wrote Mom and Dad a long letter explaining I was moving away from home, took a bunch of my things, including my bicycle, and with the help of Tad B -- we were on speaking terms again -- moved to an apartment on South FIfth Street about half a block south of Tops Big Boy on South Grand. Mom was hurt. Dad just got mad. Both felt betrayed, and that I was incredibly cruel for telling them I was moving away because their constant bickering was too much for me to bear. For a few months, we talked on the phone and that was it. Two months after moving into the place on Fifth Street, I moved to a larger apartment on Seventh Street, just north of Cook. Developed some new friends: Nancy Harris and Roger Legg who later married (I took their wedding pictures) and Ralph and Linda. We hung at the Something Else a lot and went on a trip to Chicago one weekend.
      I rode my bike to work at Goldblatts. At one point, I just about decided to walk out of Springfield with my guitar; maybe take a train to California where my friend Bob Gilbert was working in North Hollywood. I gave my two weeks notice to Goldblatts. Bob Gray my mentor, had been transferred to Michigan, and working there wasn't fun anymore.
     I had lined up a job as camera department manager at K-Mart downtown on Fifth Street. Soon after I started there,, I was walking back to my Seventh Street apartment after a visit with friends half a block away and broke a bone in my left foot when a tried to jump across the corner of a raised lawn at Seventh at Cook. I hobbled to my bike and somehow pedaled home to 2016 Whittier. Mom took me to the hospital where the foot was X-rayed and they gave me a wooden shoe to wear. Tough dad was not happy to see me back, thank GOD they let me come back. I was in lame shape for about a month and a half.
    I returned to SCI first semester, fall, 1967 to finish while continuing to work at K-Mart. I was a busy guy, and I cannot remember how I did it all. To my profound surprise, my friend Mickey and I were in the same ethics class, taught by Father Switak from Petersburg, a superb teacher and an enjoyable class. Mickey and I were reserved with each other, but we never aggrivated each other. She was a straight up hummin' bean, solid gold.  That semester, a bunch of us resurrected the then-demised college newspaper and -- at my suggestion -- called it SCI Line. A group of students put it together. I was the first editor. The first article, which I wrote, carried the banner headline BETTER READ THAN DEAD! The newspaper name was later used for an alumni newsletter.. Another article, which I also wrote, was about was a poetry reading/acoustic show a bunch of us produced at the new Becker Library lecture room in the basement. The title of that event was "The Vegetables Speak" which was Sandy Riseman's idea I believe. Sandy, Jamie Parsons, Dan Bialis, interesting people every one shared poetry, and I wrote some songs for the occasion.
     Christmas with Mom and Carole was testy but tolerable. We all seemed to be there for each other, though we we're warmly there, glad to be there. Still it was a HEKOVALOT better than being with no one.
    At the end of first semester, my time at SCI was done. I might have flunked out; honestly I neither remember nor care. Dad had moved up to Rockford, and it was mom and me at home. This was one of the first major low points of my life, though I didn't seem to understand how low at the time. After all, Carole and I were still going together. She had typed my term papers for school and she cared about my life as I cared about her life.

Coming soon -- Chapter 6 : How I Spent Nine Months Before Enrolling at MacMurray College.

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