Kids Raising Kids

Sometime during the day of April 30, 1968, in dawned on me that the next day, May 1, was the day I was to report to the military. That was, of course, before the events outlined in the previous story. So the welcome waves of relief that passed over me as I thought about it were great. I wasn’t totally in the clear with the draft but I’ll tell more about that later.

I don’t remember a lot of what happened that day except that it was warm. Late that Tuesday night Becky and I decided to go for a ride in our convertible. We enjoyed being outside and the fresh air. Maybe it was the fresh air that did it?

When we got back to 305 North Jackson it was after 11 PM. I was tired and headed for bed. Our baby was due in five days and Becky was quite uncomfortable. Sometime after midnight, Becky woke me up. She said she thought her water had broken and that the baby would be coming soon.

I was instantly wide-awake! We went to the Henry County hospital about 2 AM. I need to say here that this all happened before prenatal classes and the fathers getting to go into the delivery room. The latter was happening in some places but Dr. Rankin said it wasn’t an option in this hospital. In retrospect that was a good thing!

When we reached the hospital Becky and I were sent up stairs to the maternity ward. There in the reception area at the top of the elevator the nurse took Becky and instructed me to go down stairs and fill out some forms. Downstairs they really only wanted to know one thing. Who is going to pay for this? My Dad had already said he would take care of it sort of as a gift to us and the new baby, so that problem was solved when I put his name down. I think the hospital bill was around $160. Dad used to joke that Angie was his because he paid for her. The doctor bill for the birth and the previous nine or so months of office visits was close to $400. We paid that as we went along so it wasn’t so bad.

When I had finished at the registration desk I went back up to the maternity floor. Not sure what I was supposed to do I waited in the reception area near the elevator. The hospital seemed to be almost empty. Occasionally, I would see a nurse pass. I kept trying to get their attention because I wasn’t sure if I was to wait there or go to Becky’s room?

It was standing by the elevator that I first heard it. It was the most agonizing groan of pain I had ever heard and it went on for what seemed like minutes. It subsided and then started up again in a few minutes. I was horrified! I was sure it was Becky and I was powerless to help.

Finally, a passing nurse said, “What are you doing here?” and she led me into a room where Becky was. I told Becky I had heard her and she said, “That’s wasn’t me!” It was someone down the hall whose baby was coming breach. I was incredibly relieved!

Becky and the baby weren’t making much progress. Sometime around 5 AM the doctor decided that Becky was exhausted and needed to rest to get some strength. He gave her some medication to let her sleep and said they would induce the baby later that day.

Becky slept until that afternoon. In the meantime I called Becky’s parents and my parents. I went home briefly to shave and pick up some things and retuned to the hospital. When Becky woke the nurse gave Becky a pill to hold under her tongue. The contractions began soon after that.

Somewhere around 2:30 in the afternoon Angela Sue Ross was born. I stood outside the viewing glass as Dr. Couchman, the assisting physician carried her into an adjoining room where she weighed her. Angie was covered with some gunk and her head was pointed. I was shocked. The doctor turned her over in her hands and examined her like she was a toy doll. She looked at me from behind the glass, smiled and gave me a thumbs up.

Dr. Rankin came out of the birthing room. He said everything was fine and Becky was doing well and would be out soon. I was afraid to ask about the pointed head thing but decided if it was bad someone would say something. Becky later explained the reason for the pointed head to me.

That day I was convinced I was the luckiest man alive. In one short year I had graduated from high school, enrolled in junior college, married the girl of my dreams, avoided being drafted, and became a parent. The birth of a child, of course, pales the other four but they were all very significant positive events for me.

After we had taken Angie home we often got up in the middle of the night just to stare at her in her crib and marvel at our good fortune.

By the way, I still think I am the luckiest guy alive.

The Draft

The Vietnam War was raging in 1967 but I had a deferment (II-S) because I was enrolled as a full time student in college. The war was very unpopular by this time but there seemed to be no way out. (Sound familiar?) Many others and I were just hoping it would end before we had to go. My cousin Terry was enrolled part time in Burlington Community College. Part time students were considered eligible for the draft but Terry had an I-H deferment because of his weight.

Each county had a quota each month and the local draft board determined who would go. Darlene Taylor, at the local draft board office, checked on every deferred person regularly to see if their status changed. If you dropped a class and dropped below the full time status the college was required to report it to draft board. They kept close tabs on II-S students and even knew our grades and who was likely to flunk out.

In February of 1968 I received an Order to Report for Physical Examination. I didn’t realize it at the time but this letter is the first step of being drafted into the armed services. Other friends had gone for physicals so the only thing that really bothered me about it was being gone overnight and away from Becky.

The army physicals for Iowa were given in Des Moines. We all rode up in a bus one afternoon and checked into a barracks when we arrived. We were informed that we were in fact in the military while were there. I was bummed that they didn’t serve us supper or breakfast the next morning because of the tests. The physical itself was uneventful except they made me go through the colorblind test several times and finally determined that I wasn’t faking and I was actually colorblind. I asked the guy if that disqualified me from service and he said, “No, you would make a good sniper!”

On a gloomy day in late March while I was working at Glanzman’s Printing, Becky came in crying and holding an envelope. It was an Order to Report for Induction. I had been drafted. I was baffled because I was a full time student and didn’t understand what was happening but there it was. I was ordered to report for duty on May 1, 1968. The problem was amplified by the fact that our baby was due to be born on May 5.

I took the letter and went to talk to Darlene Taylor at the draft board office. She was stern and had no sympathy for me. She said I had been dully drafted by the board and there was nothing either of us could do about it. I protested and said I was deferred because I was a full time student and showed her my II-S draft card. She said I wasn’t a full time student so that didn’t matter. We argued loudly back and forth, but I made no progress.

Finally, she opened my file and pulled out a document from Burlington Community College. “Here!” she said. “Is the proof you are a part time student!” and she slammed the paper on the table in front of me. She pointed to phrase “part time” on the page.

I was speechless as I looked at the page. Then my eyes drifted to the top where it said “Name Terry D. Ross.” I could only point and finally stammered. “That’s not me!” Darlene was hysterical! Now she was the one who was upset. The county had met their quota with me and now she couldn’t send me, or Terry either because of his deferment.

My emotions that day had been on a rollercoaster. When I went home and told Becky of our change of fortune she almost didn’t believe me. We were so relieved!

On the day I was to report for duty, May 1, 1968, the greatest thing happened in my life. It has been equaled but never surpassed. It was the birth of our daughter, Angie. But that is another story.

Just Getting Started

Ok, enough about my high school years for now. I’ll tell about my high school initiation, parties at the cabin, the serious car accident, and trips to New London, driving the loop, and all kinds of other stuff another time.

A lot happened in the year after graduation! I certainly can’t do it justice in one piece so expect two or three. Up to now I have written about National Aquatic School. That happened the summer after graduation.

That summer I bought a white Dodge Dart convertible. It was a cool car! It had push button drive and a red interior. I loved that car and the girls did, too. Of course, by then I was a one-girl guy so it didn’t do me any good along those lines. But, after driving my parents uninspiring Studebaker it was nice to have a car that impressed. My Dad thought it was a little too flashy and expensive. He was probably right on both counts.

I enrolled at Burlington Junior College that summer and knew I would need a car to get back and forth. My Dad thought I could car pool with others. I probably could have but it just wasn’t very exciting for me.

The summer of 1967 was the summer Becky and I decided to get married. It was a huge decision. The wedding wasn’t until October 28 so we had plenty of time to get ready. I was 19 years old but still had to have my mother come and sign with me to get a marriage license. Becky, at 18, didn’t have to have her parents sign. I still haven’t figured that out almost 40 years later?

I wasn’t much into the preparation but Becky was. She took care of all of the arrangements. We were married in the Methodist Church in Winfield and honeymooned at the Holiday Inn in Burlington, Iowa. Probably not the most romantic place but we went there because I had to go to class on Monday morning.

When we returned to Mt. Pleasant we had to stay at my parents house for about a week before our apartment was ready. That wasn’t the best arrangement for all involved either but we all got through it.

We moved into 305 North Jackson with a bed and two dressers, a kitchen table with three chairs, some appliances we got as wedding gifts. The apartment had a kitchen stove and a refrigerator. It had a huge old oil burning heating stove in the living room.

Billy Jackson showed up about suppertime the first night we were there. He couldn’t seem to take the hint that we were about to have dinner or he was hoping we would feed him, too. I think we finally did. It wasn’t the cozy dinner Becky had planned.

Becky worked at Lauser’s craft and paint store. I went to school and worked part-time for Glanzman’s Printing Company. I made a dollar an hour and worked about 12 hours week. Becky made about forty dollars a week. Needless to say we didn’t have much money. We probably could have collected food stamps but never seriously considered anything like that. From time to time our parents did help us out with food or furniture and since my parents owned the duplex apartment we didn’t have to pay rent. We lived in that place the first four years of our marriage.

High School V

My senior year of high school went quickly. I took the ACT tests in the fall and it was determined that I really wasn’t college material. Community College or vocational schools were options as well as enlisting in the armed forces. That latter meant most likely a tour of duty in Viet Nam so I wasn’t too excited about that. Failure to enroll in some kind of school meant the draft was inevitable. Undaunted I applied at the University of Iowa and Iowa Wesleyan and was rejected by both. My years of a casual school approach to learning were now narrowing my options.

Burlington Community College was my choice. (It was renamed as Southeastern Community College while I was there.) That settled, I continued my pattern of enjoying high school but not doing much work.

I did take an elective from Roger Williams that year. The sole purpose of the course was to speed up your reading. They used a machine called a tachistascope that projected the text on the wall and gradually did it faster and faster. It worked I got so I could read very fast. I have retained that skill at least to some degree to this day, however if you don’t use it much you lose a lot of it.

My senior year in my regular English class with Roger Williams was the first time someone suggested I might be colorblind. The assignment was that we were to find an interesting piece of text to read aloud to the class. We were to paste a copy of the piece on colored paper that reflected the mood. I picked a blue piece of paper because it was a sad story. When I said that to the class they burst out laughing because the colored paper I had chosen was purple. That was an embarrassing and even humiliating experience! Someone said, “You’re a senior in high school and you don’t know your colors!” Mr. Williams just said, “You must be colorblind!” and we went on.

My class tied its first football game that year and lost the last two games of the season. Up until that time we had won every game from 7th grade on. It wasn’t the way we had hoped to end our football careers. I suffered what I now know was a concussion in the tie game with Fairfield and remember little of it. It was surreal the day after the game to watch myself on the video and have the coach yell at me. I didn’t start the next game for the first time in my career but was back in the starting position before the game was over.

I did have an offer to play football at Iowa Wesleyan. That lasted only until they looked at my ACT scores and then it was quickly withdrawn. I was way too small anyway and would have been way out of my class. Eventually, I will get to my days at Iowa Wesleyan and my experiences as a collegiate athlete.

High School IV

My junior year in high school was an up and down year for me. A serious ankle sprain marred a successful football season. It was the year I met Becky officially at a basketball game and I was fairly successful in school.

I was the long snapper on the varsity football team. During the Ft. Madison game I was injured. I watched it over and over again on the videotape but couldn’t really figure out why it happened. I had snapped the ball for a punt and ran down the field and made a great tackle on the star running back and in the process forced him to fumble. After the play the video shows me sitting on the ground rocking back and forth in pain.

I was on crutches for three weeks but still played in football games. Dr. Rankin came to the dressing room before each game and taped my ankle so heavily that it was like I had a cast on. I was helped onto the field to hike for each punt and extra point. Our opponents were aware of my injury and tried to tee off on me a few times but most of the time the guards on each side of me kept me safe. The injury, however, has plagued me the rest of my life.

After football season I didn’t go out for wrestling because of the lingering ankle injury. That gave me more time, which was not always a good thing. Idle time for a boy my age led to hanging out at the Princess Café and smoking cigarettes. I took great care not to get caught smoking by anyone from the school or anyone who might tell my parents. I was never caught. Too bad I didn’t because it might have caused me to quit sooner.

Academically, my junior year was not so bad except for chemistry. I had Roy Oliver as a teacher and it was kind of tough. I did enjoy the labs but needed all the help I could get in the classroom part of the course. Fortunately a friend took mercy upon me and often helped me with the homework. I think I failed the tests but my lab reports and homework were good enough to carry through with at least a C in the course.

We all had to do the dreaded research paper that year in English. To this day I am not sure what that entire exercise is all about but nevertheless everybody did it. It wasn’t really research but the rewriting of someone else’s work. The methodology of the whole process was something that was used in no other place than the school research paper.

I think I had U.S. History with Ron Statler that year, too. I enjoyed the class and Mr. Statler was a good teacher although he almost never left his seat at his desk in the front center of the classroom. I later did my school administrator practicum with Mr. Statler when I finished up my master’s degree. At that time he was principal at the junior high.

After meeting Becky in February that year I was hopelessly in love and spent all of my spare time in Winfield or on a date with her. We went to movies, dances, and even a few parties. The parties were pretty tame compared to the parties kids seem to be having now. We went to Winfield’s prom and then Mt. Pleasant’s together.

High School III

My sophomore year of high school was a great year for me! Our sophomore football team went 8-0 for the season and we were on cloud nine. We thought we were studs and, I expect, were pretty obnoxious. I went out for intramural wrestling that year and was successful even against some of the juniors and seniors. I lost to a senior in the end of the season tournament. The following year Mt. Pleasant started competitive wrestling.

Mrs. Clark was my English teacher. She had a rather large bosom and often wore a top that showed some cleavage. I remember that she always had a hanky stuck in that cleavage. She would use it occasionally to wipe her forehead and then plunge it back in there. This, of course, didn’t go unnoticed by the boys in the classroom. Although I was afraid of Mrs. Clark she was kind to me. My oral language skills carried me in that class.

I had Mrs. Lawrence as my biology teacher. I was somewhat interested in biology but really didn’t put forth much effort in that class. That was something I have always regretted. I have a strong interest in the sciences and should have worked harder at it when I was in school. Mrs. Lawrence was kind of timid and students took advantage of that often. I regret that, too.

My advisor strongly advised me not to take geometry given all the trouble I had with algebra as a freshman. I took it anyway and did quite well. When my algebra teacher heard about it he came to visit me and asked me how I could be doing so well. I told him that it was just easy for me and made sense. I couldn’t say the same for algebra. I think I hurt his feelings. He left the district the next year.

I had Latin II my sophomore year and we read Caesar’s war commentaries. Caesar had a five-year command in Cispine Gaul and Illyricum, the Roman provinces of northern Italy and the lands along the Adriatic coast. He saw this as a great opportunity to expand Rome's empire and we read about every detail, in Latin. It was kind of interesting but I grew bored with it about halfway though the year. I survived the class largely because the focus was on using the language and not studying it.

That year I took drivers education. I already had my license but Dad said we could get a discount on our car insurance if I took it so I did. Kent Acheson taught it and I did well. While driving with him once I did get stuck in the mud and he wasn’t very happy with me cause he had to get out and push me out.

That year I also took typing. I don’t remember what grade I got in that class but can say to this day that it was the most obviously useful class I have had in my entire academic career. I use the skills I learned often and find them invaluable in my job.

High School II

My freshman year of high school I had Latin I, Algebra, English, and General Science. That was the normal load for most ninth graders. There might have been one more class but I don’t remember what it was. Perhaps it was driver’s education. I was signed up for physical education but only attended the class twice in my four years of high school. In those days athletes didn’t have to go to physical education class.

My Latin teacher was Bernice Huffman. I took Latin because I thought I wanted to go to college and everyone told me that I should take Latin. We spent most of our time conjugating verbs. I don’t know why but we practiced that over and over. I found myself doing it in my sleep. School Latin is a rule driven language. The thought must have been that if you learn the rules you learn the language.

Living languages like English are in flux and don’t match up well to rules. They are always taking on new forms and dropping old ones. That is what makes them more functional. A language that doesn’t change is dead. I am always amused at the amateur grammarians who go around correcting everyone else. True grammarians, and I have known a few; know the futility of such pursuits. It is the language of the people and not vice versa.

Anyway, I did average work in Latin class. Miss Huffman moved me to a desk near her desk and went out of her way to be sure I was successful. I guess Latin has been useful to me but I did find it a little confusing when I took Spanish later on.

Dale Mundt was my algebra teacher. I was pretty much clueless in algebra. I just didn’t see any practical application for it and couldn’t get very interested. Mr. Mundt promised that he wouldn’t fail anyone who tried. His measure of that was if you came in once each quarter and asked for help. I did just that and scraped by in that class. At the end of the year he did highly recommend that I not take geometry my sophmore year. I did. More about that when I write about that year.

In ninth grade my English class was mostly drill and practice of grammar. That was a shock for me after a very successful eighth grade English experience with Mrs. McDowell. In eighth grade we actually used the language and read and wrote a lot. I adjusted but did not like it nearly as well. My ninth grade teacher, Mrs. Traut, was a nice enough person but the class was a disappointment to me. The influence of my mother and teachers like Mrs. McDowell had convinced me that language learning was a fun and engaging experience. I guess they spoiled me and I didn’t like it when it turned into work.

My Science teacher was Kent Atchison. He was young, owned a Corvette and was a pilot. Everyone, especially the girls, liked him. I loved the class and did well. One evening Mr. Atchison gave me a plane ride to Des Moines and back. He had to go for some reason and I went along. Round trip was less than 3 hours. It was pretty cool!

All in all my entire freshman year was a good year. The varsity football team was undefeated, untied and unscored upon that year. A feat unheard of and to my knowledge never duplicated anywhere to this day. I got to play in a few of those games. It wasn’t because I was so good. It was because the team was so good and would get so far ahead that Coach Evans would let the freshman play. I remember for the Fairfield game Mt. Pleasant dressed over one hundred players and every one got in the game for at least one play.

Quidquid latine dictum sit, altum viditur (“Anything in Latin sounds profound”).

High School

I was in the Drama Club my freshman, sophomore and senior years of high school. I don’t know what happened my junior year? I think it was my sister Loretta’s influence that got me involved. I have always contended that drama folks were all kind of weird and, I guess, that accounts for me being one of them.

I was in the all high play my sophomore and senior years and in the musical my freshman and senior years. I was in a one act play my freshman year, the junior class play, the senior class play and the contest play my freshman, sophomore and senior years. When I look back at it that seems like a lot. I guess it was the ham in me wanting to express myself.

I remember the two musicals. One was “Little Abner” and the other was “Oklahoma.” Not being much of a singer I had bit parts in both. They were a lot of fun. I was in the contest play three times and we had great success. We earned 1s for at least two of them. The one I remember most was a scene from the “Crucible.” I was the sheriff and it was the scene where I came to get Sarah and Tituba and take them to jail. Jackie Tolson was Tituba and Jan Johnson was Sarah. That was my senior year. Tom Owen, who had the lead in the play also earned “All State Actor” for his role in the play.

Sometimes I would go from football practice to play practice. I played football all four years of high school and earned a varsity letter the last two years. The odd thing was that I was the starting center and the lightest guy on the starting team. My class didn’t lose a football game from seventh grade until the last two games we played. Why it came apart then I am not sure? I think injuries and fatigue must have taken over.

I was also in the Creative Writing Club, the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, the Letter Club, the Future Teachers of America, wrestling for three years and track for three years. An ankle injury in football ended participation the latter two. I also belonged to the Science Club on and off during my high school years.

The FTA (Future Teachers Of America) group was just kids who thought they might want to be teachers. Several of us actually ended up in education. I don’t remember much about the meetings but I think we did get to go on a field trip to Iowa Wesleyan College for a conference.

I loved school and being a part of all of it. I didn’t care much about studying and was skilled at avoiding it at all costs. It was all just one big social event for me and I took full advantage of that. I was a below average student and couldn’t have gotten into a respectable college after high school so I ended up in junior college and that was only because they had to take everybody.

The Swimming Pool III

One summer we were particularly annoyed by people who were sneaking in the pool at night and then vandalizing the place before they left. If they had just went swimming and then gone home it wouldn’t have been so bad. They left behind beer cans and bottles at the bottom of the pool. They left items of clothing that made you wonder what they wore home? I hated the cigarette butts that were left on the deck and in the water. We even found left over pizza and other kinds of food.

The intruders usually climbed over the fence near the west end of the pool. They could get over easy there near the filter room and diving board deck. The other spot they sometimes came in was the gate on the north side of the pool. It was a good spot because the cyclone fence there didn’t have sharp wire sticking above the top bar.

We tried several deterrents without much success. Terry Conrad had an Edmund’s Scientific catalogue. We bought waterproof fuse in the hopes of making bombs that would explode under water. We did and they did but there was no practical way to make them work if we weren’t there to light them. We tested our explosive devises in the pool and in the park. If a kid were to do something like that now he would be put in jail and forever labeled a terrorist.

I ordered a whole head ape mask out of the catalogue. My mother wasn’t happy about it and wondered why I would order such a “horrid’ thing. It was pretty creepy! I couldn’t sleep with it in my room and had to hide it in the garage and not think about it when I wanted to go to sleep.

Terry was the only one I shared the mask with. He agreed that it was really cool and creepy, too. We tried spooking people by driving around town with it on. That worked but it was hard to see out of it and drive at the same time. We tried hitchhiking with it on. That worked, too, but what we usually ended up doing was scaring ourselves more than anyone else.

Terry and I decided we would sleep overnight at the pool and try to scare anyone who tried to sneak in. I don’t know if you have ever tried to scare someone but sometimes you end up the one being scared. We hid in the basket room one night and when the intruders came into the pool area we got so excited we forgot what we were going to do. We were too scared to put on the mask and run out there so we waited for them to get into the water and then we turned on all of the lights.

There were about 6 naked people in the pool and boy were they mad! Four of them were guys, big guys and they started coming towards the bathhouse. We were terrified and started calling the police. That was the only thing that saved us. The mask just didn’t seem to be the right thing that time. The people made us turn the lights off while the girls got out of the water and they all got dressed and left over the fence long before the police arrived.

The Swimming Pool II

The Swimming Pool II

Over the years I worked at the pool with a lot of different people. I met Terry Conrad while working at the pool. Terry was a lifeguard along with me and he attended high school at WACO. Terry was very bright and loved technology. He was always fiddling with old radios and gadgets like that.

Terry had a great sense of humor and was always coming up with cleaver tricks and practical jokes. In the filter room there was a huge over flow tank. It was round and about three feet in diameter and six feet tall. Near the bottom of the tank was a three-inch pipe with a small wheel valve. The pipe led directly to the main line just before the large filters. Over it was an eight-inch pipe with a large wheel valve. That line is what we used to add city water to the pool. It came from a well not far from the pool.

In the heat of the summer when the pool water temperature was too warm to be comfortable we sometimes added well water to cool it down some. It really didn’t help much but it was better than nothing. One very hot summer day we got the idea that we could really cool down by crawling in that big tank. We would open the bottom valve full blast and the top valve and the tank would look like a boiling caldron of water. It was far from being hot with the water temperature about 60 degrees.

Once, on a hot afternoon after we had backwashed the filters Terry decided to get into the tank before going out to guard the pool. As often happened there were four or five kids at the top of the steps watching us work. The kids were shocked to see Terry crawl in the big tank with the water swirling around. Terry seized the moment and begin acting like the water was pulling him under. The kids imagined that the tank went deep into the floor of the room and eventually into the pool. Terry struggled, screamed and disappeared. The kids were screaming frantically. I yelled at them to run out and see if he came out in the bottom of the pool. By the time they came back Terry and I were laughing hysterically.Those kids went and got their friends and we did it again. We replayed the trick over and over. We even fooled a few of the female lifeguards with that trick.

Although this may have sounded risky it really wasn’t. The suction out the side pipe was minimal and both Terry and I could hold our breath for quite awhile. Some of our other escapades were really risky.

We challenged each other to see who could hold their breath the longest. We would both swim the length of the pool under water and start back the other way sometimes getting as much as halfway back.

We tried diving from the back rail of the diving board stand. That meant the diver had to clear about 12 feet of the deck to get to the water. The diver would stand on the top of the rail with the other person bracing him. We easily cleared the deck so naturally we moved about four feet back to the deck rail. Miraculously we both cleared the deck that way, a full 16 feet. We only did that once each! If you think this is crazy wait until you hear the next story.

The Swimming Pool

I worked at the Mt. Pleasant Pool every summer from age 13 through my first year of college. I started as the basket boy for the morning Red Cross lessons and ended being assistant manager. I usually worked six days a week and many times seven. During the six weeks of Red Cross lessons, work started at 9 am and didn’t end until we closed the pool at 9 pm. I usually had an hour for lunch and supper but usually taught private lessons during those times. Needless to say I didn’t have much of a social life except when it rained. Those days we closed and we usually went to a movie or something like that.

People used to ask me if I ever saved anybody. I would usually say that I pulled someone out on an almost weekly basis. Did that mean I saved them? Well, I always thought that if I hadn’t done it someone else would have. That sort of thing is fairly common at most pools. Someone gets in over their head and needs a little help getting out.

It wasn’t quite as common to have someone slip under the water and not be noticed. Lifeguards are all about prevention and using rescue as little as possible. When it was necessary the guard would try to extend something to the swimmer or throw a life ring to them. We were to only enter the water as a last resort. On one occasion we had to use the resuscitator. As it turned out the person was having a seizure. We used it to provide oxygen. I don’t think he was ever in serious danger. Although I practiced it a thousand times, I never had to use CPR.

The pool was divided into areas with a guard responsible for each one. The areas were deliberately overlapping to make sure we had complete coverage of the entire pool. We practiced scanning our areas in patterns and then reversing the pattern and scanning again. That went on over and over all day long. It is so hard wired into my head today that I find myself doing it every time I am around people who are in the water. It is kind of a curse to always be looking for trouble.

In all of those years at the swimming pool we had some great times. I swam everyday and became a strong swimmer. At the annual swimming meet every summer I was undefeated, even swimming against swimmers two or three years older than me. It was the one area of my life that I had great success.

At every swimming meet the guards put on a show. We usually dressed up in crazy outfits and did crazy things off the diving boards. One trick was to line six guys up on the very end of the board and all dive in at exactly the same time. It was dangerous and tricky but I don’t think anyone ever got hurt. I still have the picture of us doing it that was on the front page of the newspaper.

Sometimes on hot summer nights some of us would stick around after the pool closed and go for a moonlight swim. It was cool to have the whole pool to ourselves. We often ordered pizza and had our own small party. Sometimes the police would stop in and check to make sure we were pool employees.
The police checked the pool after hours regularly throughout the season. It wasn’t unusual for us to find clothing left behind by skinny dippers who had climbed over the fence the night before. Sometime we had vandalism or damage to the pool. On a few occasions they broke into the bathhouse and would take whatever they wanted. Sometimes we were very frustrated.

We cooked up schemes to get back at the scoundrels. We put jelly on the counter we knew they would crawl over to get into the bathhouse once and the intruders left a messy trail but probably just washed it all off in the pool so we weren’t ahead much. Once we hid in the bathhouse until the swimmers snuck in and then turned on all the lights. When we realized how many of them there were and how big they looked we called the police. Fortunately, they left before anything happened.

We spent the night a few times at the pool waiting up most of the night to catch intruders. That didn’t work to well because we scared ourselves more than anyone else that came along. I’ll tell some more about that in the next installment.

Collections

My family has always collected things! I collected arrowheads, marbles, buttons, iron toys, coins and gadgets. I still do. I have expanded to old tools, unusual musical instruments and harmonicas. If I think about it very long I am sure I could think of a couple more.

I don’t know what possesses people to collect things but some people do and some don’t. It is almost a curse. I am sure some of the folks who declutter houses would have a field day with me. It is not all my fault! It’s genetic! Yes, it came down from both sides of my family.

My Mother has always collected things. I remember when she collected apple dolls. She made them and still has many. She collected different kinds of dishes and then Avon collectables. She has a collection of dolls, trivets and I am sure she has a collection of many other things.

And books, oh, my family collected books. My family has such a profound respect for a good book, fiction or non-fiction, that they can hardly bare to give them up even after they have read them.

My Dad was the worst! He, of course, had a large collection of arrowheads, which he shared with hundreds, maybe thousands. Many others things he tucked away somewhere. He had a button collection, an old map collection, an old tool collection, and more. He clipped articles from all sources and pasted them in scrapbooks. He collected historical information about areas of the county and put them in three ring binders. He was almost always looking for something.

One winter, when it had been particularly dry for sometime, we went to Merrimac. Much of the river bottom was exposed. First we collected a large spike that was part of the 1855 dam and then two boards from the Mill that was there in 1841. Dad also had a brick from that mill.

Dad had a brick from the Trenton Institute of Science that was built in 1868. I remember seeing the building when I was growing up. At some point the building was torn down but Dad made sure he got that brick.

He had a spindle from the stairway of the hotel that was in Rome. He used to hold it in his hand and say, “Think of the stories that piece of wood could tell!” and then he would tell me the hotel had a reputation for being a wild place.

Dad collected boards because good lumber was hard to come by and expensive, too. The walls of the garage are lined with those boards today. You never know when you might need a good board for something?

Besides the arrowheads, bones of prehistoric creatures and all of the other stuff, we collected rocks. All kinds of rocks! We found geodes, fossils, and just interesting looking rocks. If we could lift it we would bring it home. We piled them in stacks in the yard. Many are still visible there and others have sunk into the ground. Dad speculated that archaeologists a thousand years from now would be baffled by the odd assortment of rocks in the location of our house.

Even though this seems like a lot of stuff there is more! I don’t know how many collections we have or even why? I just know we are collectors.

National Aquatic School

During my senior year in high school the Henry County Red Cross decided they wanted to send me to National Aquatic School. It was partly because they wanted to reward me for loyal service and partly because they had never sent anyone before, had the money and thought it was a novel idea.

There were schools located in four or five places across the country. The nearest was at a place called Little Grassy Lake Campus near Carbondale, Illinois. It was part of the campus of Southern Illinois University. In those days the Red Cross had a big office in St Louis and some of the national leaders were involved in this school because St. Louis was only about 130 miles west of Carbondale. The one I attended lasted 10 days and while I was there I focused on becoming certified as a Handicapped Swimmer Instructor because I was already certified as a Water Safety Instructor.

One of the instructors was a person named Walter Housganick. I don’t think I have spelled his last name right but he was a famous man in the Red Cross. He was retired by this time and came to our school to teach for a few days that summer. He had done many movies for the Red Cross on how to do different water safety and rescues.

Walter was not much more than five feet tall. He was not a big man in any way except his belly. It stuck right out like he was ten months pregnant. His favorite way to teach was flat on his back in the water. He would float on his back, that huge belly sticking out like a whale and lecture away at us for an hour. He was fascinating to listen to and had story after story about daring rescues and what did or what should have happened.

The curriculum was rigorous and focused on classroom activities and practical application of the training in the water. We had the classroom part in the morning usually and were in the water all afternoon. Many times the instructors would teach from the dock while the students treaded water or floated. We were in about 20 feet of water so there was no rest. By the end of the camp I could tread water for couple hours without much problem. You learn to minimize your effort and maximize your buoyancy.

To better understand being disabled we simulated different kind of problems. We tied an arm or both arms to our side and then tried to figure out the best ways to move through the water. I was the one who had to try it without arms and legs so my arms were tied to my side. A board was placed between my legs and then my legs were tied together. They shoved me off the dock before I was ready and I was on my own. I was able to roll over relax and my face came out of the water just enough to gasp of a bit of air. Fortunately, they fished me out soon after that but the feeling of helplessness was horrible. I have never forgotten it.

Another, not so traumatic, activity that we did was called the “blind man swim.” In that activity a blind folded swimmer was paired with another swimmer. We were told to swim to the sound of a bell about a quarter of a mile away. The other swimmer was there to help if the blind folded swimmer got way off course. Once we swam around the bell a different bell sounded back where we had started. Each person took a turn with the blindfold and as the escort. I hated being blind folded and swam as fast as I could to get it over with. My escort couldn’t keep up with me but it didn’t really matter cause I swam right to the bell and then back.

I graduated in June of 1967, about a month after I graduated from high school. The trip by Trailways bus to Carbondale and then back home was quite an experience for me and something I will write about another time.

Berkshires Barbershop

Barbershops have been gathering places for a long time. Usually, men gather in places like that to talk over the issues of the day or gossip about anyone who is not there. Eventually conversations turn to sports.

Berkshires Barber shop in Mt, Pleasant was no different. In the daytime there was almost always someone hanging around there to share or pick-up on the latest. In the evening it was no different. The crowd was much younger in the evening though.

My cousin, Terry Ross, cleaned the barbershop in the evenings for Wayne Berkshire. He wasn’t supposed to let anyone in while he did that but you know how that goes. Everybody knew where to find Terry from about 6:30 top 8:30 on Sunday through Thursday night. Friday nights Wayne just swept up a little after the shop closed at 9:00 and besides Terry was otherwise occupied on Fridays. The same was true for Terry on Saturday nights. Cleaning the barbershop was the last thing on his mind. That is why he waited until Sunday evening to clean it.

Terry was one of the hardest workers I have ever known. He took great pride in cleaning the barbershop. It had been remodeled just prior to him starting there. It had shiny chrome fixtures and chairs. It had huge mirrors across the wall behind the chairs and another large one across from the chairs. I remember Terry polishing those chairs to perfection. More than once I waited for him to finish up and on the way out the door he would notice something that wasn’t just right. Outside the shop he would look back in the big front window. If he saw anything that wasn’t perfect he would unlock the door and go back in and fix it.

I subbed for Terry a few times when he was unable to be there to clean the shop. I don’t think I ever lived up to the expectation but it was good money so I didn’t turn down the opportunity.

Terry was masterful at using the reflection in store windows across the street to see who was coming down the street on foot or by car. He knew you were coming before you got there. Sometimes he would run out and stop a friend in a car if he had something important to share.

Terry played as hard as he worked. After finishing up at the shop we would sometimes go out and get in mischief somewhere. We never did do anything terribly wrong but definitely did things we shouldn’t be doing.

Once we chased around some out of town thugs until they decided to chase us. We were in my parents car and headed out into the country and eventually down a very muddy road. Of course, we got stuck and so did the other guys. Since we were in front we talked them into helping push us out and promised to have a nearby farmer come and pull them out. They helped us get out and we left them there. I don’t know how they ever got out but I do know they were pretty mad when they did.

Hang Out

Ty’s grill was located on the southeast corner of the Main Monroe street intersection. It was a very popular teen hangout my first few years of high school. It was owned by Ty Fitzpatrick. Almost everyday after school it was packed with kids buying a cherry coke and maybe some French fries.

I was a little intimidated by some of the older kids who hung out at Ty’s and so I really didn’t go in there unless I was with someone else. I don’t know why I felt that way but I did. Ty’s closed sometime during my sophomore year and everybody moved about a half a block west to the Princess Café.

Dennis and Kent Lamm’s parents owned the Princess Café. They were friendly, outgoing people who welcomed kids in the restaurant even though we weren’t big spenders. Sometimes they did hurry us out of there if they had paying customers wanting a booth to sit in. Before it was the Princess it was the Candy Kitchen. Years after the changeover my Dad still referred to it as the Candy Kitchen.

The Princess had booths all along the east wall and a long counter with stools along the west wall. My Dad worked down the street a short distance at Roederer’s Clothing and he usually took his morning and afternoon breaks and had a cool drink there. The kids usually went for the booths and the businessmen on break took the counter. I always had to be careful that I wasn’t doing something stupid when my Dad was around. Sometimes I wasn’t careful enough.

We did do some silly things. Sometimes we would loosen the lid of the salt and peppershakers so that when someone tried to use them the lid would fall off and the contents would be all over their food. We got in trouble for that. Then we would take the lid off the saltshaker and put a thin layer of paper napkin over the top and then put the lid back on. Last we would pull the entire remaining napkin off the shaker so it looked like normal. We would laugh uncontrollably when someone tried to use the shaker.

Ralph Lamm, the owner, did come out of the kitchen to scold us a few times. He was generally pretty supportive of kids but didn’t like it if we were too noisy or caused problems for the more serious diners. Having the Princess Café as a place to hang out probably kept us out of some of the more unsavory places and I think Ralph knew that.

Kids gathered at the Princess, guys flirted with girls and we sipped Cherry Cokes and ate French fries or onion rings. The princess is where I perfected my wink. There were lots of girls there and we were expected to flirt. So I practiced, first with one eye and then the other. It is good to be an ambidextrous winker. You never know when that ability might come in handy. I have used it many times myself although I am not quite as good at it as I used to be. In my prime I could wink like the lights at a railroad crossing.

Workin’ On a Hog Farm

I worked at the swimming pool every summer during my high school years. In the fall, winter and spring it wasn’t as easy to find work that could accommodate school and athletic schedules. Most jobs I did find were temporary one-shot deals. There was, however, one job that I worked regularly all through high school. That job was working on Dick Cornick’s hog farm.

Dick was a big operator! He had his farm, his father’s farm across the road, and another one not too far away. He grew corn and soybeans on the land and had a large granary on his father’s farm. On all three farms he raised hogs during the cooler weather. This was the days before the big hog confinement operations that are now in place all over the countryside.

Farmers raised the hogs from beginning to market back then. Dick had his own sows and he used each one for several years. After awhile you got so you could tell one from the others and know which ones to stay away from. He would put a boar with the sows for a while and then wait for farrowing.

In this day and age farms have a farrowing house where sows are placed just prior to giving birth but back then we didn’t always get the sow in the shed in time and she would have her pigs in the lot or pasture someplace. Then we would have to wait for the “old girl’ to fall asleep. Then we would sneak up and carefully, put her babies in a five-gallon bucket and with a bucket in each hand, hurry as fast as we could to the fence. Usually the sow would wake up about the time I had picked up all the pigs and was heading for the fence. She would soon figure out what was up and would take off after me. It was close several times but I always made it to the fence.

We would put bedding down in stalls in the shed and place the little pigs in there. When it was just right and ready all we had to do was open the door and get out of the way. That sow would make a “bee line” to those pigs. She would nose them all over to see if we had done anything to them snorting at us all the while for taking her babies.

I rarely worked on the farm alone. Dick had two boys, Doug and Brad who often worked with us. Then there was always a crew of us from town. Sometimes as many as four or five guys would come out to work for the day. Dick was a great employer and paid us well in those days so it wasn’t hard to get other guys to come with us. I was a study employee and become the recruiter and the contact guy when Dick wanted us to start coming out to work.

The hard work was cleaning out the stalls and the lot floor every week. Today hogs never get out of a confinement house their whole life but back then hogs got to range in much larger areas. Each week we scooped all the manure out of the stall and off the lot and put down new clean dry bedding everywhere. The mixture of pig poop, mud and bedding was sometimes so soupy that it was hard to keep on the shovel.

For some reason when we went to lunch they often asked us to sit outside and when I went home at the end of the day my mother always made me take all of my clothes off outside before I came in the house. We always worked hard and it felt good! I made enough money in one day (about twelve dollars) to take a date to a movie, have a drink and popcorn there and then get a pizza afterward. Today, twelve dollars wouldn’t get a couple into a movie.

Presbyterian Pete

(This poem is fictional and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.)

I’ll tell you the story
Of Presbyterian Pete.
He came to church early
Just to get his seat.

He stayed in that spot
The whole service long
Not bothering to stand
Even for a song.

About half way down
And next to the isle
There he would sit
Intent all the while

On keeping his spot
No matter what
He wouldn’t scoot over
He was stuck in a rut.

God help the soul
Who is caught
By accident or by chance
Sitting in that spot.

Then along came
Isabel Elsie Sprout
A new church member
She left little doubt

That she was strong
At just under 5 foot tall
She was bold and courageous
Not intimidated at all

Now all will remember
That fateful day
When Isabel sat
Some people say

Pete’s faced turned bright red
He stuttered and stammered
He swayed and he rocked
He turned and he clamored

But Isabel sat and then
Patting the seat next to her
She said with a smile.
“You can sit right here, dear!”

Pete, reluctantly,
Sat in that spot
What happened next?
I can’t tell you a lot

It was amazing
I do know this for sure.
A couple they became
And married the next year.

And now every Sunday
They take any seat
Cause they all seem just right
For Isabel and Pete.

Perry O. Ross
August 18, 2006

More Fishing

Growing up I went fishing a lot. While I was young I often went with my Dad but as I grew older I started going with friends, too. One of my friends, Tom Owen, and I fished a lot. Tom was a Jehovah’s Witness and some people avoided him. I didn’t see what all the fuss was about and Tom and I were friends.

Sometimes when we were fishing we would have some pretty interesting philosophical discussions but I never felt pressured by Tom in any way. He was a very bright guy who loved science and nature.

Sometimes we would load up our bikes and ride to Oakland Mills. There we would fish along the river sometimes all day long. Tom would always bring along some of his mother’s bologna sandwiches and we would have them for lunch. Sometimes we fished along the bank or on the rocks below the dam. We fished for catfish sometimes and other times for carp. We didn’t eat the carp but the big ones were fun to catch.

My mother had a great recipe for dough balls that my grandpa used and she would mix up a batch of that for me every time we wanted to go. It was made from corn meal, anis, and water and cooked on the stove. If it was made just right it would stay on the hook quite awhile.

Sometimes when we would fish at Oakland we would see my Grandpa. He always fished up on the dam and I would go up and say “hi” to him. We didn’t fish from up there very often until I got much older. A few times we did fish from a risky location.

The dam runs across the river. There is the larger portion of the dam where the water rolls over and then on the south side there are gates. Between two of the gates there is a pier than runs out into the river below the dam. Under normal conditions that pier is about a foot and a half out of the water. The only way to get out on the pier is to climb down the precarious slope from the dam and out on the pier. Getting out there with fishing equipment was a risky endeavor.

The first guy would climb down and the other would carefully lower the gear to him. We tied strings on everything before we lowered them just in case they would drop in the water. Amazingly, I don’t remember that ever happening. We never fell in the water either but we sure could have. It was risky behavior and my mother would have been upset if she knew about it.

We would sit on that pier and fish all day long. Thanks to Tom’s sandwiches and canteens with water we could last quite awhile there. Climbing up from the pier, sometimes with a stringer of fish, was as precarious as the trip down and I was always glad to reach a solid surface.

Old Threshers

Old Threshers officially started in 1950 but a small group of them met a couple years before that. Growing up in Mt. Pleasant meant I was involved in a number of different ways. In the fifties the engines burned coal that had high sulfur content. That meant they produced great quantities of black smoke that darkened the sky over town. The air smelled bad and black dust was all over everything. Thresher engineers were covered with coal dust and ash.

The smoke and the shrill whistles permeated the town for several days before and after the official event. Clean air laws forced a change in the type of coal used which has cleared the skies around town during the show.

Our church had a huge tent and served three meals a day during Old Threshers. It was a massive undertaking that started weeks in advance and lasted at least a week after the event. The tents were set up and wired with electricity. Grills, refrigerators, freezers and ovens were moved into the tent as well as serving counters, tables and chairs.

The expectation was that every member of the family that could follow directions could help out in the tent. There were numerous kinds of jobs from food preparation to busing tables. The adults made sure the kids got the lowliest jobs. I remember one couple that served as cashiers taking money from the diners as they went through the line. No one dared to try to take that job away from them. They would shout at us kids to clean tables or work faster. I was often more than a little annoyed with that couple.

When I got my drivers license I drove a pickup truck back and forth between our church in downtown Mt. Pleasant and the fair grounds. Pies and other kinds of food were dropped off at the church and my job was to deliver it to the tent. I preferred that job to any of the others. I could get out of the mud, steamy air and smoke. Once one of the shift supervisors had me drive by a worker’s house to see if he was out mowing his lawn. The supervisor was mad because the guy hadn’t showed up for his shift in the kitchen.

Some of the cooks in the back had some beer in the big refrigerator. They hid it by drinking it in paper cups. The cup size was R38. So anytime one of them wanted a refill they ask someone close for an ‘R38.” They thought they were hiding all from us kids but, of course, we were on to them. Late in the evening several of them would stand out behind the tent smoking with their “R38.”

Sometimes the hot humid weather and rain turned the tent and the area around it into a quagmire. We carried in wagonloads of woodchips and spread them over the ground. It didn’t take long for them to become muddy and soaking wet. Tempers in the tent often flared and many un-Presbyterian things were said. Sometimes we saw each other in a different light and, in some cases, decided we didn’t like each other very much.

Our church and other churches that served at Old Threshers made a lot of money doing it each year. The Presbyterians finally decided they had had enough. When we built our new church near the grounds we shifted to parking cars and serving some meals from the building. I, along with many others, was glad it was over.

Over the years I had lots of other experiences with Old Threshers. They include working with the railroad when it first started, performing in the pageants in front of the stadium, taking tickets at the concerts, being part of the security detail, directing traffic and parking cars. I am sure there were other things, too.

Becky - The Rest of the Story

Besides the incident at the pool I saw Becky on at least two other occasions before I met her. There may have been others but these two are as fresh in my mind as the day they happened.

Terry was dating Jane Porter during one of the times I saw Becky. Jane’s dad, George, was the regional supervisor for Walnut Grove Feed sales. Becky’s dad was a very successful salesman and was well liked by George. Once when Terry brought me along to Jane’s house Russell and his family showed up. Again, I don’t think Becky really noticed me.

The chronology may be slightly off here but I think I saw Becky again in the fall of 1965. It was at Jerry’s Pizza when it was located in downtown Mt. Pleasant. Becky was sitting in a booth in the back with a big guy in a Winfield letter jacket. I was with a bunch of guys and we were all showing off a little bit. The guy Becky was with had his back to me and she was facing me. Our eyes met and I winked at her. To my delight and amazement she winked back. That moment and her face are frozen in my memory as if it happened last night.

I don’t know why I thought Becky was a year older than I was but I did. That was one reason why I didn’t think I had a chance. The other was that she was clearly out of my league. She was the kind of girl I knew I could only dream about.

With the above and the pool incident as a backdrop I was amazed at what happened next. I was dating a girl but we really weren’t very interested in each other. It was more so we both had someone to go out with. One Monday, early in February, Susie Potter, an old friend told me she had someone who wanted to meet me. She gave me a name that I didn’t recognize and said she would introduce us on Friday night. I had a date to the game and dance following so I wasn’t sure how this would work.

All week long I wondered who this girl was. Though I considered it I wouldn’t allow myself to think that this could be my “dream girl.” Susie promised that when they came to town she would come into the game and introduce us. She promised to be quick and no one would be the wiser. She told me this girl had a date with a senior I knew. The guy was kind of a dud so I began to think this couldn’t possibly be the one I had hoped.

When Friday night finally came I was double dating with a friend of mine. We picked up our dates and went to the game. Near the end of the first quarter Susie stuck her head in the door of the gym and motioned me to come over there. I told the others I would be right back and went out into the lobby where I met Susie and Becky. I was numb! It was a dream come true! Susie insisted we go for a ride. She promised it wouldn’t take long. I don’t remember exactly what happened in that car but during the ride we talked and planned to meet again. We exchanged numbers and I went back to the game.

After the game I went to the dance with my date and the other couple. Feeling I had met the girl I wanted to marry I broke up with the girl I was dating that night. After I dropped her off I at her house I decided to scoop the loop around the square one more time. That is when I saw Becky again. She was running out into the street to get my attention. Her date had dumped her because he saw her get in the car with me. I took her home that night and thus began the relationship that has lasted over forty years.

Becky - A Love Story

I worked every summer for several years at the swimming pool in Mt. Pleasant. I started out as a lowly basket boy ended my time there as Assistant Manager. By then I had done about every job you could possibly have at the pool.

Being the basket boy meant you had to do all of the dirty jobs. It meant you had to scrub the floors in the dressing rooms daily and clean the toilets. Yuck! The work had to be done and I was the lowest on the totem pole so it fell to me. There was a basket girl, too, who usually took care of the girls’ side but I do remember that I often had to do both.

A lot of the time I was trapped handing out baskets but at other times there was plenty to do. During slow times I had to go around and pull the weeds out of the cracks in the cement around the pool. I had to clean the footbath regularly and keep the basket room in good order. By August, algae would be growing in cracks on the edge the steps up to the deck where the high dive was. I had to scrub them regularly to keep them from becoming slippery and unsafe.

There weren’t many perks with this job but there were some. I could go swimming a lot and didn’t have to pay. I got a good tan and there were lots of pretty girls around. Sometimes scrubbing the steps and then hosing them off was a convenient excuse to get out of the basket room and flirt with those pretty girls.

One Friday night this girl, her sister and her little brother came to the pool. I think I had seen her before but I don’t know where. What I do know is I was instantly smitten. I could hardly take my eyes off of her. She didn’t even see me in the basket room and she went on out to the pool.

Desperate to make some kind of connection I went to my old standby. It was time to scrub the steps. I went to work on the steps but she still didn’t seem to notice me. She even went by me on the steps a couple of times but seemed oblivious to my presence. I don’t think I did much of a job on the steps because I was watching this girl all of the time.

Finally, in a last ditch effort, I began hosing down the deck near the low diving board in the northwest corner of the pool area. That was the diving board she was using. Still no reaction! That is when I squirted her with the hose. I waited until she was in the air and then I squirted her. She smiled a smile that warmed me to my toes. I may have squirted her again. I don’t remember. I was in la la land. I do know I didn’t see her again for a couple years. I will tell the story about the next time we crossed paths later.

Locker #3

During the summer before I got to high school, Terry a year ahead of me in school, asked me to locker with him. I, of course, agreed not realizing the implications. Lockers on Football Players row in the new addition were to be coveted. Usually only juniors and seniors got in that section. Terry had somehow smoozed the girl who was working in the office and in charge of assigning the lockers. He assured me we would be there and in locker #3 of all places, just inside the west door of the wing.

When I registered, sure enough, I was assigned to locker #3. The combination was 3 to the left, 18 to the right, and then 24 to the left. (I don’t know why I can remember that?) Terry warned me that the upper classman weren’t going to like it but I should just play it cool and not say anything no matter what they said to me.

It was inevitable that I was soon recognized in the hall and told no freshman was allowed in that hall. Many knew me because my sister Loretta was a senior that year. I said my locker was there and stood there meekly. Terry came around the corner and to my rescue. They didn’t like him being there either because he was only a sophomore but they didn’t want to mess with him.

One person, Pat Coghlan in locker #1, let me know daily that I shouldn’t be there but he never actually did anything to me. He just grumbled a lot about me being there. I took Terry’s advice and kept my mouth shut and tried to avoid Pat Coghlan when I could.

On an unusually warm day in November just after lunch I was standing at my locker. The halls were empty and I was going to be late for class if I didn’t hurry. The doors to the west were propped wide open. I saw Pat park his car along the alley that ran west of the building and come across the lawn and into the building. I thought, “Oh boy, here it comes again!”

Pat went straight to his locker and then looked over at me and said, “Somebody shot President Kennedy.” He said he heard it on the news when he was home for lunch. He grabbed some books out of his locker, slammed it shut, and went to class.

By the end of that period rumors that Kennedy was dead were flying around the school. Soon after the next period started the principal got on the intercom and said the rumors were not true and that we should focus on our schoolwork. Near the end of the period the principal got back on the intercom and said we were having an assembly in the auditorium.

We all gathered in the auditorium and the assistant principal announced from the stage that President Kennedy had been killed and the details surrounding it were still not clear. He then told us we could go home. At home, on the evening news, we watched as the story unfolded. In the days to come we watched the film of the President being hit over and over. It was a frightening thing for a 14 year-old kid. We didn’t know what to expect. Would we be going to war? Who would do this? Later, we saw the alleged assassin gunned down as he was walking through a police station.

I think many kids my age were changed by the whole experience. People still ask where I was when Kennedy was killed and I say, “I was at locker #3.” Now it is “where were you when you first heard about 9/11?” My granddaughters may be telling that story someday.

Poetry

I am from a family of poets. That may seem to be unusual to some but I think it was perfectly natural to us. When I heard other kids complain about not liking poetry I was amazed. I just didn’t see what there was to hate about it, besides hating it would seem somehow disloyal to my roots.

My mother is so skilled with words that she can make a poem out of almost anything. She has a poet’s mind. Poets just look at things differently. They think in a different way. I am not sure if I can give it justice, so you will have to believe me when I say poets are just different. My mother had a huge influence on us and even my father (who didn’t get it genetically) was a poet in his own way.

Growing up I was surrounded with words. My mother was always sharing a new poem with us or reading aloud one someone else had written. Poems were all around the house. In those days, before computers, poems were usually composed with paper and pencil and then typed. It was even before correction fluid so typing a poem was tedious simply because you did not want to make a mistake and have to start over. Erasures were unsightly and so getting it exactly right was critical.

Mother’s poems have been published in books, in magazines, and in the newspaper. She is well known across the state as a frequent contributor to the juried publication, Lyrical Iowa. The most exciting time was when they would read one of mother’s poems on the radio. WLS in Chicago did that sometimes. WHO read Mom’s poems once in awhile and a station in Omaha also did. Just before it happened the station would send us a telegram telling us exactly when it would be read.

It seemed like many of them were read on Sunday evenings. I can remember the whole family gathering around the radio and anxiously waiting to hear the poem. The radio was in the corner of the dining room by the kitchen door. When it did happen we would be so excited that we hardly paid attention to the poem and then it would be over. There were no replays in those days and I think Mom was sometimes disappointed that we missed part of it. My mother is a woman of great patience but I am sure that tested it.

Sometimes one of mother’s poems would be in the church bulletin or the newsletter. On a few occasions the pastor read one from the pulpit as part of the sermon. One of mother’s poems was put to music and sung in church several years in a row.

Mother belonged to a writing club called Scribblers for at least 70 years. The group meets once a month at someone’s house to share writing. At 93 years young mother still attends the meetings and shares her poems with the same enthusiasm she did when she first joined the group.

Coin Collecting

I could be a pretty annoying kid when I was growing up. When I think back on it I don’t know how anybody could put up with me? I was the youngest of three children and the only boy so I was spoiled and I could be very obnoxious.

At some point in junior high school my mother decided I needed a hobby. Oh, I had some hobbies, but nothing really serious. I hunted arrowheads with my father and I loved to fish and hunt. My mother decided I needed something to do the rest of the time.

Miriam Cathy was an older woman on my mother’s Avon route. Mrs. Cathy had a coin collection and my mother decided that would be a good hobby for me probably because I couldn’t seem to hang on to any coin that passed through my hands. I think she thought I would save money and get involved in the hobby…sort of killing two birds with one stone.

She bought me a penny book to start my collection. It was a tri-fold book with slots for coins from 1940 to the present. I starting taking a closer look at pennies that I received in change. I went through my parents change every time I got the chance and was amazed that they let me keep ones that I didn’t already have and even a few of the ones I did. They always let me have any penny that I came across that would fit in my book. Soon I got a second penny book for pennies from 1900 to 1939. I discovered that this was such a lucrative way to get money from my parents that I started collecting nickels and dimes. By the time I started talking about collecting quarters my mother was on to me and suggested I stick to the small change.

Mrs. Cathy was really kind to me. I did wonder why she was so nice but I soaked it up anyway. She talked Mom into letting me join the Mt. Pleasant Coin Club. I don’t think there was a single person under sixty in the group. They met once a month at the REC building on east Washington Street. They usually had a short monthly meeting and then a coin auction. People in the group put their own coins up for auction and bid on others that were for sale.

I soon discovered why they wanted me there. No one wanted to be the auctioneer because if they were they couldn’t concentrate on the auction. So, I became a coin auctioneer. They would call my house each month to make sure I was coming and were always very nice to me. I got pretty good at it after awhile and a few mistakes. Once I tried to sell a 50-cent piece for twenty cents. That didn’t go over too well. Another time a buyer tried to go back on the deal but I stuck to my guns and the other club members stood up for me so the guy had to pay. He was mad and left right away.

As I got older and busier I stopped going the meetings and they soon found another kid to take advantage of so they let me drift away. I still have all of the coins I collected. They are in a box in the basement. Maybe, when I’m over 60 I’ll get them out and start collecting them again.

Student Center

I think I discovered girls in 7th grade. Oh, I had some interest before that but it really bloomed in 7th grade. It might have been because the girls around me were blooming too. I am not exactly sure but I am sure that I was interested.

Mt. Pleasant had a youth center on the south side of the square. It was a place for kids to hang out, dance, and socialize. It had previously been in a building on the corner of Clay and Adams, cattycorner from the courthouse. This one was in a store front about directly across the street from the steam engine on the square. That whole half a block of buildings disappeared when they moved the Savings and Loan to that location. Thinking back on it I think it was great that someone provided this for the kids. I don’t think things like this exist anymore.

High school kids got to use the youth center a couple nights a week and junior high kids got one night. A junior high kid would never dare show up on one of the high school nights. Once in awhile there would be a dance at the youth center for one group or the other.

It was at a youth center dance that I first met one particularly mature 8th grade girl. She was taller than all the girls and most of the boys. I came up to her shoulders. Now I wasn’t totally inexperienced with girls but very close. I had taken two girls to the Rainbow dance. Yes, two girls at the same time and I got a corsage for each of them. One of the girls’ mothers knew my mother and they set the whole thing up. They pretty much used me to have an escort to the dance and usually dumped me the minute we stepped in the door.

But this 8th grade girl was different. Terry said she liked me so when the time came for another teen dance we somehow ended up with a date. My Dad had to drive me out into the country to pick her up at her house. I had a corsage for her, too. I have always thought that was an awkward tradition for guys to follow. Just exactly how are we supposed to pin something on a girls chest without touching something boys are not supposed to touch? Girls, I think, got a kick out of watching us try.

We got to the dance. She looked great and I was slowly getting more comfortable. That was until the first slow dance came up. In that position it put me face to face…no I guess it would be face to bosom with this girl. The trouble with dancing with a girl that is a foot taller than you and well developed is that you don’t know where to put your head. You can’t exactly look straight ahead. Looking to the left is kind of backwards. Looking to the right puts your cheek in inevitable contact with forbidden territory. I ended up with what I would call the swayback position. It was constantly causing me to lose my balance and start to fall backward, which also produced an undesirable effect for my partner.

That was my one and only date with that girl. Terry said she thought I danced weird and she moved on to someone else. I told Terry that was fine even though I was a little hurt. She had lipstick on her teeth anyway.

My Dad Knew Everybody

My Dad knew everybody or, at least, it seemed that way to me. For years he worked in Hoaglin’s Department Store, and the Byrd’s Shoe Company that eventually became Tompkins’s Shoe store. He finished up his career at Roederer’s Clothing store. In all that time he went out of his way to know his customers. He could call them by name and knew almost everything about their family. He knew where they lived and who their relatives were. He had a remarkable ability to keep everyone straight.

Often when he met somebody new he could tell him or her who his or her relatives were. Sometimes people came to him to get their family history because they knew he would know. Dad was especially good at figuring out how people were related to us. To this day I think just about everyone in the Wayland area is related to us.

When we traveled and stopped in towns he would sometimes spend hours talking to people and trying to make some connection, no matter how remote, with them. Remarkably, he was able to do it many times. He liked to go in clothing and shoe stores in far away places and talk shop with the workers.

In Spearfish, South Dakota, he made some connection with someone who knew someone who had moved from Mt. Pleasant to the Rapid City area. At the Smithsonian in Washington, DC he made connections with someone who was a friend of someone Dad knew at Iowa Wesleyan College. It happened like that all the time.

His gift of conversation made him a good salesman. In the case of the jobs at
Byrd’s and Roederer’s he was actually recruited by the owners. After he retired he was frequently recruited by stores to fill in for vacations, help out with sales and other occasions by local stores and stores as far away as the mall in Burlington. No matter where he was he was making connections with other people. Today, that is called networking.

Years later, in the 1980s when I started taking classes at the University of Iowa he occasionally came along with me. Dad was in his late 70s or early 80s during that time. He would spend the entire time I was in class wandering around downtown Iowa City talking to people. He didn’t think much of the college students who worked in the stores in the mall but developed a relationship with the theater manager there. The guy had relatives in Fairfield so by the time Dad had done his research and Dad made his second visit with me he knew more about the guy’s family than he did.

Once we were walking through the mall heading for the parking ramp and the guy from the theater yelled, ”Hey Pat!” greeting Dad as if they were old friends. In the parking ramp that same evening we ran in someone from Washington, Iowa, that Dad knew for some reason. I could only shake my head in amazement.

My Dad once described someone who knew a lot of people in our area as “someone who cuts a wide path.” Dad cut a wide path!

8th Grade English

Ruth McDowell taught 8th grade English at the Mr. Pleasant Junior High. My Mom said we were distantly related to her. She was from the Salem area and so was my mother’s side of the family. She was much feared by most kids and known to be a stickler for grammar and spelling. Not being so great at either I was really worried about being in her class when I got to eighth grade. Unfortunately, she was the only 8th grade English teacher so it was inevitable for everyone.

She was strict and even the toughest kids didn’t mess around in her class. Her room was at the top of the south stairwell on the third floor and there she reigned over that end of the building and all the way down the stairwell to the ground floor. If a kid misbehaved anywhere on the stairwell you could hear her yelling all over the building. She would order the child to come up stairs to her room. In those days the kid would dutifully walk up the stair to face the scolding. Seventh graders shuddered when they heard her voice. There were stories about kids in trouble with her and never being seen again.

When the first day of school rolled around I was pretty nervous about that English class.
I had Mrs. McDowell for 3rd period. After hearing all of the stories about her I expected it to be a nightmare…a yearlong nightmare. The grammar, the research paper, and everything else just seemed overwhelming.

As I walked into her room for the first time she greeted me and called me by name. She mentioned admiring my mother’s poetry and how much she respected my sisters. I thought, “Oh boy! I have heard this before!” Usually it was followed by something like, “So what happened to you?” but not this time. She told me she looked forward to having me in class.

That year we worked systematically through the research paper and what had appeared to be overwhelming seemed manageable. I can’t say that I did a great job on it but I got through it. It was hard for me to grasp the idea of the research paper. We weren’t really doing research but just restating in our own words what someone else figured out. Having done some real research in my adult life I can’t say the experiences I had with it in junior high and high school were of any value. I wonder how many people are researchers when they grow up? Not many but the “research paper” was a right of passage for all of us.

I probably learned more in that English class that year than all the other years up to that point. I actually, really read books for the first time and my interest in reading exploded. I even started reading the newspaper everyday and anything else I could get my hands on. While she did correct my grammar in my writing she encouraged me and was very positive about things I had written. I felt empowered by her!

At the beginning of the school year Mrs. McDowell told us we needed to memorize a poem by the end of the year. It was a requirement. We could get it out of the way as soon as we were ready or wait until the end of the year. She said we should pick a poem by someone we admired. I talked to my Mom about it and she suggested Robert Frost. After reading some of his poetry I picked “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening.” I surprised myself by learning that poem in a few days and Mrs. McDowell heaped on the praise when I recited it to the class after just a couple weeks of school. My whole eighth grade year was positive for me and my confidence grew tremendously.

Don Taft

In junior high I encountered many unique teachers but none was more unique than Don Taft. Mr. Taft was a social studies teacher and the junior high football coach. He was a short stocky man who seemed to be a very independent person.

More than once I heard conversations in the community about Mr. Taft using profanity in the classroom or on the football field. He did and I heard him use it in both places but most often on the football field. Many parents were upset about it but powerless to do anything. Most of the kids didn’t really care.

Mr. Taft had special punishments for each kind of misbehavior in his class. Chewing gum and getting caught was bad news. You had to stick the piece of gum on the black board and then stand with your nose on it until he allowed you to move. If someone did something really dumb he made him sit on a stool in the corner with a dunce cap on. Other punishments included sending students out to run laps around the building. While the student would run Mr. Taft would lean out the third story window and hurl taunts at the runner.

Today, any one of these things could result in the reprimand or termination of a teacher. Mr. Taft had a special status in the community. As a very successful junior high football coach no one wanted to challenge him. In a football community the coaches had a royal position and could do almost whatever they wanted. I really don’t think Mr. Taft abused his royalty position that much but I have heard of some who did.

I went out for football. We were a rag tag bunch with mismatched equipment. The too large helmets slid down over our eyes when we ran and we crashed into or fell over each other all of the time.

In seventh grade every kids dream is to be a ball carrier. The biggest adjustment is realizing that is not going to happen for you. That is when you learn what a team is. We practiced right there on the playground and played our games at McMillan Park.

In seventh grade we had 3 games and 5 or 6 in eighth grade. Dewayne Similar was Coach Taft’s assistant and worked with the seventh graders while Taft worked with the eighth graders. Coach Taft would let lose with a few expletives in almost every practice. It was usually after someone missed a tackle or messed up on a play. Whenever it happened we would all duck as if we were going to get hit. The hit was only with words but they probably hurt just as bad as a rap on the helmet.

Each fall near the end of the season the 7th and 8th graders were divided into two teams. Just how it was done I am not sure but in 7th grade I was on the Gold team. At this point in my football career I had played several different positions but had not really settled into one in particular. Most 7th grade boys want to be a running back simply because that is where all the glory is and I was no different.

We had a week of practice and then we were to play the Maroon team. Our team happened to have Terry Ross who was a ferocious guard at the time, Randy Welcher who was the starting 8th grade quarterback, and another kid who was the second team center for the 8th grade team.

The first day of practice Coach Taft was trying different offensive combinations using the 7th and 8th graders he had on his squad. I was relegated to playing defense with some of my lesser talented buddies. I lined up over that second team 8th grade center. For three plays in a row I tackled the quarterback and Coach Taft was furious! He had wanted to try out some plays and couldn’t even get them started. In frustration he told the center that if I did that again he would be standing on the sideline and I would be playing center. So, that’s how it happened. I played offensive center for the rest of my football career.

Boy Scout Jamboree

During my time in Boy Scouts we had a Jamboree each year. It usually involved a two or three-day camp and troops from all over our part of the state would attend. There were competitions between troops and chances to earn merit badges.

I remember one Jamboree in particular. Terry and I always shared a tent together at the Jamborees and at Camp Eastman. Most of the time we got along, but Terry loved practical jokes. That was good as long as we were doing it to someone else but I didn’t like it much when he would do it to me.

Late at night we would sometimes sneak around and loosen tent stakes. When the wind picked up tents would fall over on sleeping campers. Foil dinners in the campfire were big then and Terry was good at thinking of new thing’s to spike others dinners. He was skilled at getting a rock or a stick in someone else’s dinner without being detected. We short sheeted beds and put creatures in sleeping bags.

I remember one Jamboree that was held one fall somewhere near Wapello. It was in a huge rolling pasture full of grass and cow pies. Friday night was fine and on Saturday morning our orienteering team, Terry and I and two others, won the entire event by successfully navigating the entire course and returning to the starting point with a flag from each point. We had taken just under two hours and the next closest team was over 30 minutes behind us. Some teams didn’t finish until after lunch and others never did finish. Terry was driven to excel at Scout events and that we did. We got some kind of prize for finishing first and we were “big stuff” in the camp that day.

After a beans and hot dog lunch the Iowa Highway Patrol came and gave a tear gas demonstration. They set off a tear gas canister out in a low spot and then invited anyone who wanted to walk or run through it. I declined after watching kids screaming and rubbing their eyes while they buried their heads in the pillows.

The problem that day was that there was no wind and gradually the tear gas spread out across the camp and just seemed to hang there. We were soon all miserable with no sign of a change anytime soon. By suppertime we prepared our foil dinners through teary eyes. The gas had dissipated considerably but was still there, in our clothes and in our hair. The Highway Patrol had long since deserted us and the Scouts and the leaders were mad.

By eight o’clock that night it became obvious that we weren’t going to be able to sleep that night. It had turned cold and the thought of crawling in the tear gas smelling sleeping bag wasn’t all that pleasant no matter how faint the odor. After some consultation we all packed up and headed for home, as did most of the other groups. I guess this time the joke was on all of us!

Meet the Principal

Play fighting was a popular activity by the time I was junior high age. We honed our skills as play fighters and delighted in making in all look real. We would throw punches and then sprawl across the ground when we were play hit. We even threw in sound effects when we could.

On balmy summer nights we would play fight on the parking of White street east of the school building. I don’t know why we chose that spot except that my parents probably couldn’t see us through the Elm trees that were abundant then. At about dusk we would wait for a car to start down the street and then we would engage in what was to appear as a horrific brawl.

Cars would honk and slow down but it was rare to get one to stop. I imagine because the fight did not look nearly as real as we thought it did. On one occasion a car did stop and the driver got out. We, of course, high tailed it out of there. We ended up under the big evergreen on the west side of Saunders. Breathless, we rolled on the ground giddy with our perceived success. There were comments like, “Did you see that guys face!” and “We got that guy!”

It was only later that I found out that the driver had known what we were up to all along and had jumped out and yelled to try to scare us. He told my Dad that we ran like “scared rabbits!” I never did tell the rest of the guys what had really happened.

At the junior high kids would often greet each other with a fake belly punch or a kerpluuee to the jaw. I don’t know what compelled us to do it but it was very common in those days. Actually, it is pretty common in these days, too. I have seen many elementary students play fight and bring the supervisors rushing over. We finally had to ban play fighting at Longfellow.

My first close encounter with the junior high principal came right after a play-fighting event in the boys’ bathroom. I had unleashed a series of belly punches to Gilbert Galyon when the principal walked in. I immediately stopped and the bathroom cleared. The principal walked up to me as I explained that we were just play fighting. He said, “How would you like it if I did that to you?” He shoved me back into the coat rack and threw several very convincing fake punches.

He stepped back and said, “How does it feel when it happens to you?” I said, “Fine! I don’t see why you had to make such a big deal out of it!” That was a big mistake on my part! He got very red in the face and escorted me by the nap of my neck to a chair outside his office. He left me there to ponder my fate while I think he went off to plan his next steps. It was sitting there that I first felt the pain in my back. The pain from him shoving me into to coat rack at the very beginning of the encounter.

After what seemed like hours but was only about 20 minutes he came back and took me into his office. What followed was a long and somewhat confusing lecture. He said he knew all about me and that I was a real troublemaker at Saunders. I was baffled by that and wondered if he had me confused with someone else at first. I didn’t say one word and in time he calmed down. He began talking about my sisters and then my parents. Then he suddenly stopped and said, “Get to class!” and I left.

That was the one and only encounter I had with the principal in junior high. He was an elementary principal in the district during my entire teaching career in Mt. Pleasant and served on the school board there for a time. He was on the interview team when I interviewed for a principal job in Mt. Pleasant. I didn’t get the job but I doubt it had anything to do with our junior high play fight.

Colorblind

Being colorblind is a frustrating thing! Just the other day I told someone I was colorblind and they immediately begin holding up or pointing at things and saying, “What color is this?” It is a refrain that has been repeated to me, and I suppose other colorblind people, a thousand times over the years. It is as if they don’t believe you and you have to prove it all over again.

I have even had people argue with me and say “You are not colorblind!” or “How do you know?” I wonder if they would treat a blind person the same way? The Army confirmed I was colorblind in 1968. When I went for my physical they made me go though the colorblind test six times and finally the guy said, “You’re colorblind.” I asked him if that would keep me out of the service and he said, “No, colorblind people make good snipers!”

Let me just say that we do see something, just not in the same way as you. When you say, “What color does this look like to you?” I can only say what it looks like red, green, or whatever, because it has always been that way for a colorblind person. Blended colors or colors side by side are hard for us to distinguish, so red next to green might look all green or vise versa.

When I was 12 years old I didn’t know what was wrong. More than once someone said, ‘Don’t you know your colors?” The first time through kindergarten my teacher thought it was just immaturity. They second time through some thought I just wasn’t quite right. “It’s too bad! His sisters are such bright girls! I guess they got all of the brains.”

I am actually quite skilled at hiding it. I only share my secret with those I think I can trust. Unfortunately, the world is color-coded, so I can’t always get away with it. I wish that people wouldn’t laugh when they find out but they usually do.

Now, lest you think I was terribly scarred by this it is not so. I learned to compensate for it and am probably a better person for it. I would never consider trading what I see for what you see. I am just looking for a little tolerance here. In truth, everyone in the world sees things a little differently and that is a good thing. We should celebrate that!

I have deuteranopia. Wanna see what I see? Check http://www.vischeck.com/examples/. In case you want to know the first two look exactly the same to me. There are entire websites now about colorblindness and even several about how to design things so colorblind people won’t have trouble reading it.

Growing up I didn’t understand all of the fuss about color TV. I just really didn’t see a lot of difference and what I did see didn’t look like real life. Things that seem to be the most difficult are things like: weather maps are hard to read because so many of the colors blend together; traffic lights aren’t too bad because you can almost always tell which one is lit, but it is difficult to determine if a flashing light ahead is red or yellow; people who get too much sun don’t look much different from anyone else; matching clothing can be hard if not impossible; crayons with the color name on them are very helpful; fall leaf colors, except for yellow, aren’t all that different from any other time; and I need help determining if meat is fully cooked. Directions that include colors like, “Look for the green house on the right.” can be tough, too.

At least one in ten men is color blind in one way or another. I have heard of many who are a lot worse off than me. Think about us when you use colors.

Pee Wee and the Bay of Pigs

The Old K-line was a railroad that ran from Keokuk to Salem, crossed the Skunk River near Oakland Mills and followed what is the present day Oakland Road to Big Creek. It ran up through the woods to Saunders Park on what is now the road on the west side of the park. It kept going north and crossed old highway 34 near what is now a car dealership on one side and Jennings Tire on the other. It continued north and crossed a trestle over West Monroe. It crossed Madison and Henry and ended joining the CB& Q railroad.

On the spot where that car dealership is now, for many years there, was Biggs’ Hatchery. Henry Biggs, our neighbor owned the hatchery. On the west side of the hatchery was the Dream Drive In. Gary (Pee Wee) Warner’s parents owned that place and lived in a trailer behind it.

Many times when I was going to Pee Wee’s house we would walk west on Madison Street and then walk down the K-line and the across the trestle. This was pretty much the country in those days but we preferred to call it “uninhabited wilderness.” At the hatchery we would turn west and go behind the building to Pee Wee’s. Walking the trestle was pretty exciting! Occasionally a train would come down from the main line and drop off cars at the hatchery. By this time the railroad stopped right there. The rails had been pulled up all the way from Highway 34 to Keokuk.

One Friday night in late April of 1961 I was spending the night with Pee Wee. We were 12 years old and almost out of 6th grade. We considered ourselves quite mature. That day we took our usual route to Pee Wee’s. Not hurrying to his place we lingered on the rails near the hatchery, balancing on them and talking over the issues of our lives and the world.

The United States had joined in an attack on Cuba at a place called the Bay of Pigs. There was a lot of talk about the country going to war. Balancing on a rail and spitting into the air Pee Wee said, “If we go to war I’m going!” He spit again as he slipped off the rail. He told me about how young men almost our age had lied and joined the army during World War II. I wasn’t excited about the thought and I think he realized it. Standing between the rails he turned straight toward me, spit on the ground with passion and said, “I don’t care what people say! I’m gonna do it and my parents can’t stop me!” He spit again.

Now, if you didn’t already know, Pee Wee was short for his age, thus the nickname. The thought of him being able to pass for eighteen was a stretch for even my vivid imagination. I sought only to contain my disbelief as to not damage our friendship, much less our plans for the night and all the free ice cream I would be getting. I managed to change the subject and we soon headed for Pee Wee’s house.

Pee Wee’s family sold the Dream Drive In and moved to Ottumwa that summer. I did go and stay with him for a week, but we never discussed the Bay of Pigs again. I forgot this incident until 911 and was reminded of it when I saw a TV interview of a young man who had decided to join the army.