LET THE GAMES BEGIN chapter 30

I loved Friday nights. I knew I was going to meet the boys and we were going to scream our heads off at football or basketball. Before Gene got a car, I haven’t the slightest idea how we got to the games. We did go together and sometimes Jack came with us. We lived close. Just up on the corner only one block from Tech. We would meet Robert (my locker partner) and Dean (from my homeroom) outside the gate and go in together trying to find seats as close to the 50-yard line as possible even if it meant at little crowding.

While our screaming was very loud, it was mostly supportive of our teams. Dean had the uncanny knack of letting his voice reach peak performance at a point where he would clearly be heard above most of the others. I am sure I was just the follower, but my buddies may beg to differ. We could get rather, how shall I say it, accusatory, derogatory, even down right nasty if the refs called against our boys or we thought we saw something we didn’t like. It really didn’t seem to matter if the call was right right. If an opponent got away with roughing up one of our guys they got a fair amount of verbal abuse from us.

Since we were usually sitting on the opposite side of the field where our gang could never quit be identified by the opponent’s side (a good thing). Our school seemed to like our antics. At least the ones around us laughed most of the time. There was that one game. It was football and I believe it was against Benson and it was at Benson. We didn’t have a football field so all our games were “away games.” We were especially nasty that night and it was clearly the wrong night to be so.

The stadium was exceptionally crowded. Some of the fans of both teams were mixed in the crowd. That put some of their supporters close enough to understand what we were saying and to identify who was doing the yelling. There was a fair amount of taunting back and forth but it was easy to tell those guys were getting rather angry. It should have stopped us or at least slowed us down, but it didn’t. The back and forth banter was tense enough that we really needed to get out of there without them seeing or finding us. They both saw us and found us. They were waiting for us just outside the gate we exited. We were five and they were five, even match right? Not if you knew what kind of cowards three of us were. Jack was tougher than the rest and willing to fight, but very nervous about his teammates. Since Robert was not quit as obnoxious as the rest of us and not on his feet nearly as often and because he is a Negro, I don’t think they thought we were together. It was the 50’s and you rarely saw whites and black socializing. Many were friends, but that was usually only at school.

While Robert was behind us the Benson fans still thought there were only four little twerps with the big mouths. This was going to be easy, they thought. Jack might be a problem, but no one else would be any trouble at all. They looked tougher and a little bigger, but not by much. More threats were exchanged and one of them became aggressive towards Dean and moved closer. At that point Robert moved up beside Dean and just stood looking tall (he was) and as mean and nasty as possible. With his height and growling glare he was intimidating. The boys backed off but their angry taunts continued in somewhat softer tones. We countered with some mildly rude comments and walked off still taunting one another. When out of their sight, we ran like the dickens. Robert laughed, we all did. I think even he was surprised at how he could intimidate just by standing there. Being scared was over. We could be tough again.

While football brought out the largest student crowds other than assemblies, basketball was only slightly smaller. Both teams did well during my years there and often went to city championships and to state a few times. We never won state during my years.

It was harder to go incognito to basketball games. The other fans could not only hear us, but also see and, point, and give us the evil eye. We were never the only group taunting the other teams so not the only ones picked out for total destruction. Getting out of our school gym without being noticed was virtually impossible. Only one door led immediately to the outside. We had to get our first. We were more careful at other school gyms always checking out escape routes before the game.

I could hardly wait for Friday nights.

THE SCHOOL SOCK HOP chapter 29

Of course I wasn’t suppose to go, but I did. I even got up the courage to ask my dream girl from grade school. I saw her around school every day. She was even better looking than she was at Webster. She was trying out to be a cheerleader. It took awhile to get up the courage to even ask her. She appeared to be moving in some circles with upper classmen. I just doubted that we had been in high school long enough for her to make a dating connection. When I sheepishly asked her to go with me she said, “I will if I don’t get a better offer. What! That really builds confidence. But being the idiot I was, I agreed. I don’t think I would have gone to the sock hop without a date.

Nothing better did come along, so she went with a guy from the bottom of the barrel. We walked. I reasoned it was only a mile. She clearly wasn’t happy I did not have access to a car. I didn’t know what the big deal was. We were in grade school four months ago and we walked everywhere or rode our bikes. I though walking was better than asking her to ride her bike. I don’t know what she expected. I was only 14. My family did not have a car. I guess we could have taken the bus. Maybe that would have been better. For me, this would was my first official date. I guess I didn’t even know the proper protocol.

The sock hop was in the school gum. When we arrived, she greeted a few people and then we danced our first dance together. While dancing she announced that she thought we ought to mingle with other people and then maybe dance the last dance together. Off she went. I never saw her again for over an hour.

I found Dean and Gene and a couple of other guys I knew and ended up hanging out with them along the sidelines. They all came without dates. The thought of doing that had never occurred to me. I never asked another person to dance. Didn’t know anyone else, and I didn’t want to be rejected.

I’m sure us guys were typical freshman. We laughed at people, made fun of the dancing and generally acted like idiots most of the night. There was a dance called “The Chicken” which some called a dirty dance. Of course, we were interested in a dirty dance. The couple sort of jitterbugged, clucked and weaved in and out at one another and thrust their pelvis together. The crowd gathered and oohed and awed and interjected catcalls. I doubt that dance would be anything unique today, probably not even considered sexy.

We didn’t bother anyone, but I’m sure we were somewhat annoying. Maybe that’s why no one remained near us. We sat on the sideline like the wallflowers we were just talking and laughing.

We were getting tired of hanging around but I had a girl to take home. The others decided to hang around a little longer before cutting out. Eventually she came back and we danced one more time. Then she very tenderly whispered in my ear, “I have a ride home with some older guys.” I stopped dead in my tracks. “What?” I couldn’t believe my ears. What was going on? I was being dumped at the dance, not after I got her home. She wandered back to whatever crowd she had busted from and I walked dejectedly back to the boys.

We griped about girls and her in particular than decided we might as well go someplace else. There was a bowling alley a couple blocks away. We would go there. No one had any money but we would hang out for a while.

As we were getting near the exit, my date caught me by the arm and called me aside. “I decided it wasn’t right that I not go back with you. After all, I came with you.” “True, but you have ignored me all night. Why would I want to walk back with you?" “You brought me?” “What happened to the upper classman with the car (a wild guess on my part)?" He decided not to take me home after all. He was going to another party and didn’t want to take me.”“ "Too bad. Is your dad home?” “Yes.” Well, call him for a ride.” I turned on my heel and walked out with the boys. They thought my actions were terrific. I knew I did it because I was mad. I laughed and mocked her with the boys, but as I walked home alone I knew what I had done was mean. It didn’t matter what she did, I did not need to retaliate. But I was crushed. (my excuse).

She never spoke to me again and doubtfully ever looked my way. I was OK with that. I did feel like it would not have hurt as much if she had just slapped me across the face. Nothing took away the guilt I felt for my action.

She made out just fine at school. She moved in the popular crowd and as a senior was the head cheerleader. I was just a bump on her road to stardom. 

SCRIBBLES AND LINES chapter 28

The list of supplies required for mechanical drawing were: India ink, straight edge (really a ruler), protractor, 45 triangle, curved line guide, heavy duty ink eraser, and erasing shield (used to isolate only the portion needing to be erased), and a drafting pen set with compasses, pens and extensions. It was clearly a male dominated class. There were no girls. That was very disappointing.

Mr. Franklin was my drafting teacher. I was disappointed when in the first few classes all we learned to do was draw straight lines. Practice, practice, practice! It was much harder than any of us expected. First select the right pen: thin or think lines. Simple. Selecting a drop or two from the  a wasn’t bad, but putting that ink in the pen took practice. Too much ink and you could get a drop of ink spilling out of the pen onto your paper. We were not permitted to simply get another sheet of paper and start again. We were to erase the blob without tearing the paper. What an ordeal, had to wait for it to dry before you could erase it. Then getting the lines the precise length to pass Mr. Franklin’s scrutiny as he wandered around the room with his exacting measuring devise saying. “Length that line, shorten that one.” The lines always looked right to me. (Really wish I could remember exact terminology).

Finally, weeks later, we began working on simple drawings of bolts. Why bolts? They turned out to be the easiest. Everything got more and more complicated. I was a senior before we progressed to my reason for taking the class — to draw house plans. When we were encouraged to make our own designs I felt like I was flying. We worked to designs only single level homes. Creatively it was the time of my life.

Our instructor was a single-minded taskmaster who expected perfection. The assignment was never complete until it met his standards. He called it, “Preparing for the work force.” The next step beyond this would be college. It would get more difficult.

I do not remember my art instructor’s name, but she was a short thin blond who checked our work with various noises that we came to understand their meaning. She was an abstract expressionist in her own right. She admired the free flow splash of color and meandering designs of that art form. Those works got praise. Realistic work received encouragement, helpful comments and observations but not the praise of the others. I had the same instructor for all four years.

I really appreciated the exposure to various media and techniques. The day she blindfolded us with three colors of finger paints nearby was way more fun that I expected. It was probably the only time I loved abstract work and I guess I did pretty well. Of course I had no desire to take it home and hang it on the wall. I struggled miserably when trying to describe what I was attempting to communicate. Actually I was just trying to spread paint around and mix some of the colors. If we had studied the American abstract expressionist Jackson Pollock first I might had more mental ideas. When she asked us about what we saw in his work I wanted to say a paint can thrown at the canvas with brushes flipping out color and being cleaned on the canvas. I doubt that would have gone over well.

I enjoyed collages and pottery, but didn’t know what I was going to do with an ashtray. I had brother-in-laws that smoked but had not design to give it to either of them.

If I remember right, I smashed it against a wall as I was going home.

With Joslyn Art Museum being right across the street, we made many visits. She knew her stuff and her artists. We never did see a real painting by Jackson Pollock. She kept hoping one would come for a visit. He died in August of 1956 the summer before I entered Central. He was already the darling of all abstract expressionists, and his death raised him to hero status. We heard about him until I graduated. I wish I had seen the Pollack biographical film released in 2000 while I was a student, and then I would have known for sure that he was crazy. I never read about him in school. I figured my instructor told me all I would ever need to know, but we learned nothing of his as a man.  Norman Rockwell on the other hand, was my idol.

Don;t you just love it? Doesn't it touch your soul and make you feel a... I can't think of the word.

BRUSH WITH THE MILITARY chapter 27

When I entered high school guys had to take gym or Reserved Officer Training Corp (ROTC). I chose the later. Since conscription was still active I reasoned that it would be better to enter as an officer than a private.

There were parts of the program that I didn’t mind. I enjoyed learning to take apart an M-16 and shooting it on the firing range. I became a descent marksman. I didn’t even mind the drills (marching). I hated standing at attention and parade rest. Too Tiring. I doubt I had ever stood in one place that long in my life. The first year was uneventful, even routine. I was at the bottom of the heap and all I had to do was follow and listen to the yelling and screaming. The hardest ones to understand were the screamers. Turn the volume down. None f us were deaf.

In the second year I became a corporal and a squad leader. All it meant was I stood at the head of my line of six or seven guys (can’t remember the exact number). The student officers gave all the orders. However, they continued to remind squad leaders we were I was in charge. In charge of what? We basically did nothing. That’s unfair. There were times I helped with their uniform, or parts of the drill, getting ready for inspection, and learning to break down the rifle. My biggest concern was that I had Steven in my squad, and he was autistic. I always worried about him during inspection. He had an awful time presenting his rifle for inspection and was screamed at all the time. He could open the bolt just fine, but needed help at times sticking his thumb in the spring release to close the bolt (forgive me, the correct terminology escapes me). He could not always do it. Often he would become fearful. Even when he did do it, he didn’t to it correctly because he jumped and backed up a step. “Stay at attention.” He couldn’t. I was concerned that during some inspection when no one was permitted to help him that he would get his finger caught.

Well, it happened near the end of my second year. He was at the tail end of my squad when I heard the bolt hit flesh and then the blood-curdling scream. I was not to move, but I turned my head to see blood squirting out of the M-16. There were no adults present and the student officers stood there laughing. They did not make a move to help him. I could not take the neglect. I broke rank, when down and got the rifle off his thumb, pulled my hanky out and wrapped his thumb as best I could. While I was attending to Steven student officers were leaning over me yelling, no screaming at me for breaking rank. I never looked at them deciding my squad member was more important. I took Steven by the shoulder and lead him to the nurse.

The only discipline dished out went to me for breaking rank during a formal inspection. When I attempted to explain why I did it, I was told not to speak unless asked. Nothing happened to the student officers. I don’t even know it the Army Sergeant in charge knew exactly what happened. I doubted the student officers told him, and I was never permitted to speak. Steam came out the top of my head. This kid should have been excused from ROTC and gym. He just wanted to fit in and no adjustment was made for him.

That soured me on ROTC (Rotten Old Tin Cans) and I did not return the following year. If I were taken into the army, I would not be an officer but a grunt. I feared the military might be too much like ROTC. I did not like that one bit. We were kids playing at army, nothing but 14-15 year-olds fulfilling a school requirement. We were not in the Army. His thumb was broken. Actually the bone was not severed only cracked but a cast on was put on his hand. Go figure, he was proud of that cast and wanted the squad and student officers to sign it. I shook my head.

I gave up paying attention to ROYC and completely missed the draft card registration deadline. Nurse Ratchet handled my processing when I finally went to register and blasted me up one side and down the other. ”You broke the law. You did not register by the deadline. You are going to Vietnam. You will probably die in Vietnam” Doomed again. The story of my life! Not only did I break the law I was also going to die in Vietnam. Where was Vietnam? I knew, but at that point, I didn’t care. I certainly wasn’t excited my prospects. I was scared.

I went on to be a student at the University of Omaha where my dreams of becoming an architect were crashing to the ground. No only was Nurse Ratchet going to do her best to see that I was sent to Vietnam, I was about to muster out of architecture. Not being in college was a surefire way to visit a foreign country at the government’s expense. There would be no guarantee of a return trip. ROTC would probably tell them I liked shooting an M-16 and was clearing good enough to be sent to the front line They would need to beef up my skinny little body. Little did I know, that God was going to send me to Canada, but that story is a few years later! Let’s save it.

What I did finalize in my mind was that I identified as the little guy, the underdog, and those at the bottom of the totem pole. We were mostly timid, shy, nervous, lost and confused. Limited courage. I identified with kids like that because I was one of them. I have never been interested in the powerful, the wealthy, or the controllers of this world. I cared about the downtrodden and it all started in my contacts with Austin and Robert and solidified with Steven. Helping Steven was out of character.

How could people treat another human being with such contempt? They were all innocent. Steven beat us all; he got a full scholarship to MIT.

 Proof that I was in ROTC.

FIRST WEEK OF HIGH SCHOOL chapter 26

I was pretty nervous about beginning high school. Tech was only two blocks away and the majority of my Webster classmates where headed there. Tech was primarily a vocational training school. I still had the dream of becoming an architect and that meant going on to college. I needed to attend a college prep school and that meant Central High. It was reasonably close. I could walk there.

Central was an open school meaning one could live anywhere in the city and attend. Most others required you to live with in their district. It was the oldest high school in Omaha founded in 1859. The present structure was built between 1900 and 1912. It is a beautiful historic structure built in a square with a central courtyard. It is imposing from downtown with the long flight of stairs climbing the hill to the beautiful marble appearing building.

Central was a mile from my house. The shortest way was through Creighton University. It was an easy walk and directly across the street from the pinkish-white marble Joslyn Art Museum. I had been there many times to sit and enjoy the magnificent paintings and sculptures, and experience a sense and wonder while sitting in the silence and beauty of all around me. I longed to do what the masters had done. I prayed for such a gift. Maybe I would learn.

The front of Joslyn angled from Dodge. This portion looks the same as in the 50's.

From west steps of Central High across parking lot to Joslyn. Section to right is newer.

As I recall, only Sandra, Austin and I attended Central High from Webster. I never had classes with either one. In fact, I never saw Austin at the school in four years and the next time I saw him was at a grade eighth class reunion when we picked up right where we left off. He told me he was going to be a minister. I could not have been more shocked.

The three of us went in our different direction. Austin was interested in music. Sandra became a cheerleader and rose in ranks of popularity. She was certainly had the look: blond, sharp dresser, maturing, great build. She was always noticed. Austin became more involved in music. I moved toward art and mechanical drawing,

I had great hopes of high school being a joyful extension of Webster. It became more than that within a small group of Christians, but not initially.

On day two as the upper classmen joined the freshmen I opened my mouth and made a stupid mistake. I had found my locker and had just got it opened when approached by three large black guys. At least they were larger than I. They surrounded me and one knocked my books on the floor. I should have quietly bent down and picked them back up but no I had to open my mouth, “What do you think you’re doing?" Not the smartest thing for a squeaky little freshman to say. They grabbed me and began to push me into the locker I began praying for help, along with a few very loud noises. Just then a teacher came around the corner and they released me. I grabbed my books off the floor and asked the teacher for directions. She sensed my distress and replied, “Come with me. I’m going that way.” I left the boys standing by my empty and open locker deciding that if God wanted me to have a lock it would be there when I came back. It was, I followed the teacher and never looked back. I was beginning to think that prayer might work. It did that time. In fact it was a miracle to me.  So I planned on trying prayer again when the next emergency came. I just hoped I would live long enough to graduate!

My homeroom was near my locker. It was in that room I met Robert Washington, whom I affectionately called George, and Dean (not my brother). These two with my buddy Gene were the core of a group with whom I attended most football and basketball games. Dean had a short semi blond crew cut with the front butch waxed straight up and a voice that could break eardrums. He was loud and mouthy at games taunting rivals and making him heard. He motivated me to do the same, but no one was as good a annoying the other teams as Dean. Robert was a tall muscled Negro with a slight overhand of his brow that gave him the appearance of one angry dude. His presence helped Dean and the rest of us get away with being loud and obnoxious. This big loveable teddy bear looked to be a threat just standing there. Cool guy. He never said much. Really, all he had to do was stare and grimace.

Hanging with those guys let me be who I was at Webster, a little louder and out going. Otherwise, I was turning into a withdrawn kid. It was with these guys that I became aware of acting different in different situations. What was happening? Maybe it was the beginning of a survival plan.

Logo and block lettering still the same.

CHANGE IS A COMIN’ chapter 25

Puberty Sucks! All is heightened and all is crucial. Those seen whispering and looking your way are talking about you. Friends who pass without speaking hate you. The correct costume is essential to fitting in and thus daily emotional survival. You claim you are just being yourself and yet dress to fit one silly stereotype or another. Get a grip.

I know you won’t, because I didn’t, and few I knew did either, it is rare that any teen is devoid of the social pressures of puberty. Our bodies are changing, our emotions are changing, our concepts are changing  — man, our whole world is changing and we were just trying to keep our heads above water. We want to be accepted. We really just want to be loved and loved beyond our family circle. We gravitate toward whoever shows and interest or receptivity whether good or bad. What we felt about ourselves often determines the group we seek. We walk a slack wire with limited stability.

When someone stares guys check their zippers, girls pat their hair. We are extremely self-conscious of our looks and behavior. Those who give that little thought fit into another category. Poverty if rarely considered. The whole world revolves around us and we are crushed by the silliest things, but we will not know how silly they are until years later. It is amazing that any kids get through unscathed.

Clothes and hair were becoming a big deal to me as I moved toward high school. The standard policy at my house was two pair of shoes, one for dress the other for school and play, two pair of jeans for both school and play, one pair of slacks for church, five shirts, one winter coat and one spring coat. I don’t remember hats, but I had one on at a photo-op with Santa. The standard family fare wasn’t cutting it for me as I thought about high school. I wanted more and I could not understand why I couldn’t have it.

Whoops! Couldn't find Santa, but here are two other hat shots.

Dad had a great job. He worked for the railroad and was a member of the union in the day when unions ruled. He was well paid. That’s why the home we lived in ticked me off, I thought we could do better and the lack of the right clothes made me mad. Both mom and I moved to solve the problem. I spent the summer collecting scrape metal and mom got a job babysitting. While the job was ostensibly to help me get a larger wardrobe, it met her need to have more young children around. She hired on for two neighborhood boys whose mother worked full time.

I had won the clothing battle at eight-grade graduation with the gift of a sports coat and a knit tie. I can’t believe they caved in and let me have a nearly bright orange (maybe rust) jacket with a classy black tie. I was the cats meow (pardon, wrong time period). What a stupid jacket. I rarely ever wore the thing. It wasn’t the only silly outfit I had before high school graduation. I owned a white sports coat, black cummerbund, bow tie and black pants with a pink strip and, for special dances, a pink carnation.

Only the hoodlums wore jeans and white t- shirts with cigarettes rolled into the sleeve to make a statement. It didn’t matter if you actually smoked. That was cool (right time period). It was the uniform. That modeled Marlon Brando or imitated James Dean. They sneered, crooked their mouths and wore their leather jackets in the heat.

Girls mostly wore ponytails or a bob and the tougher they were the greater the make-up. Penny loafers, saddle shoes bobby socks and a sweater over their shoulders was standard attire.

Identifying costumes were subtle in the 50’s. There weren’t so many obvious distinctions as today. Bad kids smoked, good one didn’t. Richie Cunningham and the Fonzie were friends on Happy Days. That would never have happened in my “Happy Days.”  They were at opposite ends of the social Richter scale and never the twain would meet — well rarely, anyway.

Mom managed to increase my clothing allowance and helped me feel like I belonged. You see, it isn’t just girls who need to look good. I know some guys didn’t care. I just didn’t happen to be one of them. My hair followed all the latest hairstyle dictates: crew cut, flat top, ducktails with curls, ducktails with flattop, and a college cut Maybe there were others. I just wanted to fit in. When pimples came my face was a total mess. That’s another story. I know I did make one mistake and I still get teased about it. My only relieve is that I live a long way from most of my high school friends. I always wore white socks and still get teased about it. Well, I only had one pair — just joking.

It’s time to start high school. I was scared spit-less (is that even possible?).

INTERLUDE

I am really, really tired of:

Of people pulling into the center turning lane and being so afraid the front of their car will be hit that they leave the tail sticking into the lane behind them.

Of lost drivers stopping in the middle of the street to read their maps or try to figure out where they are. MOVE TO THE SIDE!

I am sick and tired of know-it-alls. You are idiots who do not know enough shut-up once-in-a-while

I am tired talking who never take a breath and do it to keep others from talking. If I wanted a lecture, I would take a class.

I am tired of you talking insistently about your absolutely perfect family and how wonderful they are. You have convinced them they are murders and drug addicts.

I am tried of people who feel the need to correct everything anyone else has to say and ANYTHING!

I am tired of dogmatic statements when you have no idea what you are talking about. And furthermore, who asked you.

I am tired of people who walk their dogs along public property, let them take a dump and leave it for me to step in.

I am tired on people complaining about the school band practicing and then calling the city to demand them make them stop. GET A LIFE!

I am tired of that same person then complaining to the Housing Authority and demanding them do something about the noise. ARE YOU SERIOUS?

I am tired of the comment “I guess I had better go do something even if it is wrong.” Just go do it.

I am tired of grumpy old people who do not have the guts to apologize, admit they are wrong or forgive even the slightest offense and then wonder if you will get to heaven, The answer is NO! Remember the prayer you recite every week in your church “and forgive us, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” YOU ARE NOT FIRGIVEN.

I am tired of people in shopping lines that know they are going to pay by check and wait until the cashier gives them the total before they even begin to look for their check book.

I am gland you have friends with jobs, but save the conversation for a time there is not a line behind you wanting to get out of that store.

 I am tired — I’m sure there is more, but I am now just plain tired.