Out of the Mist

 

“Memories, they can’t be boughten.

They can’t be won at carnivals for free.

Well it took me years to get those souvenirs, 

And I don’t know how they slipped away from me.” 

John Prine

I have written about boys I looked up to; time to write about the girls.

I am certainly in good company when it comes to shortcomings in the memory department, thank you all so much. Fortunately for the exercise at hand, I am far more likely to conjure up memories from fifty-one years ago, than memories from last week.

Unfortunately, sometimes memories can be present, but certain individual elements remain lost in the cottage cheese depths of my brain. I offer that as a lame excuse for the tale I am about to tell but I have a method to my madness. I am hoping you can help me out, because there were a half-dozen of us in all, and I was the only boy.

Complete with white
shirt and tie...

I mentioned I did not participate in after-school anything past my freshman year; that is because I worked. My older brothers worked, we all “contributed” the bulk of our paychecks to the family and that’s just the way it was. From sophomore year onward, I never worked fewer than thirty hours a week at Sunrize Market, two blocks up from my house. It wasn’t bad and it wasn’t good; it just was.

Therefore, I struggled academically through my sophomore and junior years, due primarily to issues with math and science. By the time my senior year hit, I despaired of any kind of school success, thinking about physics and senior math, whatever that was. As a result, Mama once more donned her work gloves and marched off to have a discussion with school officials. After all, she had vested interest.

As amazing as it was to me, when Mama emerged from the meeting, I had bagged the only study hall period ever granted to the male species in Amat’s history. The other class I was assigned to was Business Law, offered in the 100 wing on the boys’ side of Amat, which explains why I have clear memories of boys, with whom I did not spend four years in my other classes.

Slowly the mist begins to clear.

My study hall was first period in the library, and to my surprise, I found that I was not to be alone: I had five classmates, all of them girls, all of them new acquaintances to me. Heavens to Murgatroid!

I have mentioned the invisible line across campus, the unbroken one which divided the boys from the girls, a tragedy of immeasurable proportions, as far as I am concerned. But I also mentioned there was bound to be some tunneling going on, and this is an example. I had been miraculously set down in the midst of five of these mythical/mysterious creatures, in direct defiance of that invisible line.

Oh, Happy Days!

I have mentioned to Denise, who chairs the reunion committee, that as I meander through Tusitala ’70, there are a dozen or so girls’ names that resonate with me, though I cannot explain why, at least not most of them.

Now, seven Amat girls ventured up to Plaskett Creek (Big Sur) to meet five of us boys, a few weeks after graduation, so there is that bit of confusion mixed in. I know who two of these girls are, but not the rest. They remain present in the mist, but unidentifiable. It baffles me because we spent an entire weekend together.

Mrs. Hagerty

Our study class met in the front of the library, to the right of Mrs. Hagerty’s desk, as she looked out into the room. This I remember: Mrs. Hagerty spent far more time looking at our table than she did looking out into the rest of the library.

I’m not saying it was party central, because it was a study hall. What I am saying is I felt as though I had fallen through some sort of portal, where all pretense of social status was checked at the door. In no other high school educational setting I had ever been a part of, had I felt more like an equal.

This was no lost puppy being taken in and pampered. I was simply a classmate there to try and do some of the work that I couldn’t do at home, and was treated accordingly. We all worked diligently and I’m sure our industry was reflected in our grades.

Cough. Cough. Snort. Well, at least the part about the lost puppy. And. well, the part about the industry, and sadly, probably the part about the grades too. As though six seniors of either gender, at any point in history, could keep the academic pedal to the metal in a study hall. 

To complete the picture, as an employee of Sunrize Market, where I was required to wear a white shirt and tie, I came into contact with lots of girls. By the time senior year rolled around, I was past the box boy phase and into working the cash register. Additionally, I was assigned my own section of the store to stock and order for, so I was what might be termed, a person of interest, when mom sent girls to the store for that night’s dinner ingredients.

Could this have been the pickup truck
I rode in? 

I brought this confidence to the table when I first made the scene in the library. I started out as a curiosity to the girls, and just simply became a classmate. I reveled in this program of beginning every school day in this manner, a free period with five girls who accepted me into their midst. 

They could have simply ignored me, preferring the hour be spent within their circle, but they did not. Of all my senior moments (pun intended) one that stands out most startling is riding in the pep parade in the back of a pickup, prior to either the first football game of the season or the fact that it was against La Puente High, which was local. 

In what universe did I belong in this parade? No sports, no pep club, no student government, no popular status to be found under any microscope, and yet there I was. I remember riding past La Puente High, with their students out front and everyone was just doing the school spirit thing. 

Whoever these girls were I was consorting with in the library, they were obviously not of my social strata, nor I of theirs. And yet, here I was riding in this truck, for all the universe as though I belonged.

No, I can’t remember who the girls were specifically, but I have a list with twelve names on it, and if someone from that group identifies herself, I bet I will find out that all five names are on my list. 

If not, it can go on being my own little dream. It beats the hell out of any other dreams from high school I have ever had, most involving my locker and the lost/forgotten combo syndrome.

Whitewalls

I respected Steve Haskell from the minute I first met him; later, I grew to admire him. In my eyes he was John Wayne’s “The Quiet Man” crossed with Paul Newman’s “Cool Hand Luke,” with a sizable portion of Steve McQueen’s Virgil Hilts, the Cooler King in The Great Escape, blended in. 

OK, I never saw him read
from a script, anyway.

If that sounds a bit melodramatic, keep in mind our Steve did not read from a script, did not take his cue from anyone and was as genuine a friend as the world has ever produced. What else might the universe have expected from a February 29th baby? As vividly as if it were 1968, where my memory is sharpest, I can see Steve behind the wheel of his parents’ Buick Electra. We were sophomores, for criminy’s sake! What was Steve doing behind the wheel?

We played a lot of baseball, mostly over the line that summer, John, Glen, Steve, Doug and I, and anyone else we could lasso. Steve, aka Eddie, was the designated driver, before there was such a thing. No, we weren’t drinking-we just needed his mad driving skills. 

And why DID we call him Eddie? Duh, we called him Eddie after the character in Leave It To Beaver; that much is obvious. The thing is, Eddie was so doggone polite all the time, it defied explanation. To quote Beaver’s father on the show about Eddie, “It was almost un-American.”

Steve H

The worst it ever got was Steve would lay a “Venya Vallecki Straka!” on us. I used to know what it meant, but no longer, which is probably a good thing. I suggest you ask Darryl Nyznyk, who introduced this quant phrase into our vernacular. Czechoslovakian, I’m thinking, but it could also be Ukranian. Darryl?

Steve played varsity football as far back as eighth grade, I’m pretty sure. Wait. What? Fine. OK, forget that last thing. Sadly, by the time I had bypassed all of my self-erected barriers and ventured forth into the 21st century, Steve had already left us, bound for parts unknown. Pity he left us so early-he would have only been seventeen this year.

I mentioned playing ball with Doug Moloney. I did not know Doug because he went to St. Martha’s and he was not in my classes at Bishop Amat. He went to St. Christopher’s and was friends with John Hartnett, so we became friends.

Doug

He was another guy with more younger siblings than I could keep track of (Doug was oldest), so we had that in common. Any time he made reference to his younger sibs, it was with an air of pained resignation, but it was clear he possessed that big brother mentality that would club you upside the head if you messed with any of them.

I saw Doug as bigger than life, in that he created waves by simply walking in the door. His exuberance could not be contained and he punctuated his argument with that classic toss of his head, sending his long, silky blond hair back in the most perfect flip imaginable. 

Oh yeah, me with my whitewalls envied Doug’s golden locks. After I got out of The Big Green Machine, I drove down from San Jose to attend his wedding. I wanted to meet firsthand who it was that was going to try and keep Doug under wraps. Like Steve, Doug left before I had the chance to say farewell.

Whitewalls

I gathered my impressions of the five grads I have discussed in these two pieces of writing, over the course of years. My final memory arrives in the form of a thunderbolt, a snapshot or to use today’s terminology, a GIF. No more than a minute at best, it features Steve Clark playing an air guitar while strolling down the [somewhat populated] 100 wing on the boys’ side of Bishop Amat, fondly (or otherwise) known as the zoo by upperclassmen. My locker was in this wing as a freshman.

What song was Steve singing? 

Steve C

As I trudged the three miles home in the afternoons from school as a freshman, I had my transistor radio going every second. These are the songs that I listened to, the songs that were Number One on Cash Box Top 100, from January through April of 1967: I’m a believer, George Girl, Ruby Tuesday, Love is here and Now You’re Gone, Penny Lane, Happy Together, and Somethin’ Stupid (Like I Love You). 

What Steve was delivering was a rendition of “For What It’s Worth,” and I was not unfamiliar with it; I just had never given it another thought, or a first thought for that matter. For a second put it up against the other songs that a kid would listen to, the ones I just listed. For the first time in my life, I really listened to the Buffalo Springfield:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=80_39eAx3z8

I had never seen Steve in this mode; I’m reasonably certain I had never seen anyone in this mode. Approaching me, his face was contorted with a mixture of pain, fatigue, rage, frustration and passion. I didn’t identify those emotions at the time, but I began to-later-after I listened to the song. And then listened to it a hundred more times. 

I was aware of the political climate, I was aware that a lot of young kids were marching off to The Nam and I knew that a lot of them were not returning-ever (58,209). What I didn’t know at that time is that five years later, I would be taking yet another battery of tests while at boot camp in Missouri, when we were handed a single piece of paper, and told to fill it out. After my name rank and serial number, et al, were in place, I responded to the single question, “If given a choice, would you prefer to be stationed in Vietnam or South Korea?”

My first thought was reflexive in nature: Are you out of your fucking mind? Last I heard they weren’t blowing folks up in South Korea. I filled in the appropriate box. Besides, ironically, my oldest brother Eric was currently serving in the Peace Corps-in South Korea.

One war monger,
present and accounted for

I think of that moment in the hallway of Bishop Amat, as a turning point in my young life. Still a freshman, I was a long way from winning the only lottery I ever won (Number 33 in the draft lottery, the last year it was held), and being drafted. But I was old enough to see the writing on the [Memorial] wall. 

Steve knew what the song was all about-it was chiseled all over his face, and it rocked my soul. 

These are the memories I carry around with me today, Steve H. bellowing, “Off those ropes!”;  Doug taking a drag off of his Hackboro and Steve C. schooling me on the reality of life ahead, by playing his air guitar.

In posting these little narratives about the past, my vision is always focused on the immediate future, as in October. Stop me if you have already heard me say this, but there is more than ample time to either reacquaint yourself with old friends, or like me, make new ones. 

And if something shakes a memory out of your razor-sharp brains, from back in the day, share it in the comments. In the immortal words uttered from the stage at Woodstock, 

“It’ll do you no harm.”

Coming "attractions": I’ve written about the guys; what do you think, Women? Dare I? There may have been a solid [invisible] line across our campus, but there had have been some tunneling going on….

Stay tuned to the Reunion Page, where cauliflower brains are being sharpened up for October…

Hey You, Up There!

Except for Debate my freshman year, I did not participate in extracurricular activities. Therefore, I tend to remember personalities rather than events, or maybe students as they fit into the events of everyday school life. I have chosen a few to write about, school mates I watched from a distance, as they established themselves as forces around me. This morning's personalities belong to John Ebiner, Jeff Ruch and Greg Berg.

For the most part I came into contact with the students in my immediate classes, known back in the day as the Honors Group. Never in the history of the universe was there a more poorly designed educational model than this one, but that is fodder for another post. It saddens me that as I go through Tusitala ’70, there are so many names and faces that mean nothing to me.

 

This is one reason why the period of time in front of us is so key: It affords us the opportunity to connect again, or for me, to connect for the first time. How much more meaningful the gathering in October becomes, when I consider this approach.

 I got many a ride in this '59 Plymouth...

Having attended St. Martha’s from its inception, when I entered as a third grader, two students on my list also went here. I’ll begin with John Ebiner, whose parents had the same first names as mine, Pauline and Robert. John had more siblings than my eight, so we obviously could identify with a lot of life’s offerings. We were both boy scouts, first in Troop 433 (St, Christopher’s) and then St. Martha’s very own Troop 708. As freshmen, we were partners on the school’s debate team.

John wore an armband throughout our senior year, in support of Cesar Chavez and the struggle of the Mexican migrant workers. OK, I am not sure specifically how long he rocked that band, but it didn’t matter. In ten thousand kid years, I could never have had the confidence to stand up for my convictions to that level.  

John 

In point of fact, I also supported Mr. Chavez. My father’s close friendship, akin to family, with Mexican workers at the shop where he worked, and my family’s own connections with Baja, California, made me feel a strong level of sympathy. 

Plus, as students at St. Martha’s, we received instruction from nuns who were tossed out of Cuba in 1962, joining us in the winter of 1963. They appeared in our classrooms as TA’s, pero no puedan hablar ingles (…but they couldn’t speak English). The following September they were installed as our teachers. Whereas it was not a bilingual situation, the nuns who taught me always included in the curriculum some rudimentary instruction in Spanish.

John’s political statement, eloquent in its simplicity, was not only bold, it came at a time when social upheaval may have been teeming all around us, but it was certainly not at Bishop Amat, so I admired him for his stance.

Jeff, obviously at the
pinnacle of success...

Jeff Ruch and I were bff’s in grade school and I spent a lot of time at his house in the summers. Heck, we danced together at our eighth grade graduation sock-hop, complete with record player and 45 RPM records. Two straight dudes dancing… Hard to envision that scenario in today’s middle school system.

As we journeyed through our high school days in the same classroom, even being on the debate team as freshmen, it was obvious that he was soaring high above the rest of us, while I was still trying to claw my way out of the mud. I viewed our past friendship as an unspoken bond between us that nothing could change. Whereas in grade school we had been academic equals, as high schoolers, he left me far behind. 

Still, I considered it clearly a matter of success through association: Because we had been such good buds, there was a part of me soaring up there with Jeff. I admired him for being able to establish himself academically in such a broad field as Bishop Amat.  

My cousin Greg Berg is on this list. We spent time together as little kids at my grandparents’ home in Wilmar, so we were already family. Greg was never part of that faction of kids who tormented me; he had too much loyalty for that. At the time we graduated, there were only five dudes in our class shorter than I was, and one was Greg. Did he let his height interfere with his success at Amat? 

Against Blair

To watch him on the gridiron was electrifying. Sure, McKay got his share of the headlines, but Greg’s stature on the team was undeniable, making him more than worthy of my admiration. 

It wasn’t just the athleticism, it was the fact that he mingled with the powerful and popular on campus, and even if I did not, it was another case of success through association. 

Besides, Greg also competed academically because he had that Berg intelligence that was so responsible for my own abilities. My mama was a Berg. 

OK, that’s three of six but I am off to don my chef’s cap to prepare lunch for the crew here at HappyDayFarms. The other three will have to wait until tomorrow. There is plenty of grub if any of you happen to be in the neighborhood. 

I’m only five miles up a dirt road, here in northernmost Mendocino County, but will be down in SoCal in October to share memories, both old and new. Here’s hoping to see you there!

That's Greg on the left, voted most inspirational

Jeff

A Squared Plus B Squared

***

Most of my specific memories of Bishop Amat High School are fond and tend to be comical, simply because fifty-one years is a long time to hang onto bad memories. If you look long and hard enough, you can find humor everywhere.

Take Mrs. Felps for instance, a paragon of etiquette and decorum, if ever there were one. She taught senior civics to about forty of us guys, some time after lunch when things could slow down to a crawl. As a seventeen-year-old dude, I did not know what to make of her. She dressed stylishly in outfits which showcased her feminine attributes, and was always supremely sure of herself. She was no Sacred Heart priest, that was certain. I could not help but think she was enjoying herself teaching forty male seniors, but what do I know? 

Rarely did the porcelain crack, but crack it did-once. Crack? Shatter would be more accurate. It took Steve Clark, he of the laconic approach to words, to accomplish the deed in the closing days of our senior year. Yes, Mrs Felps was attempting to maintain order within her classroom; sadly, she was no match for the mood of the moment. 

Steve was stretched out on the floor on his back, arms akimbo. As far as any of us should tell, he was snoozing; no one was paying too much attention to Steve. The volume in the class had notched its way past problematic, and seemed destined for sound-the-alarm-level, when Mrs F. finally decided she’d best rein us in.

Her full skirt swirled as she assumed center stage, directly in front of her desk. Never one to melt in the glare of the spotlight, she towered above us in her stilettos, commanding our attention. She would have gotten it-no one disputes that point-but Steve got it first by bellowing out over the cacophony, “I can see up her dress!”

The brazen nature of the breech of etiquette was so flagrant, as to shock us into silence for the length of time it took for Mrs. Felps to react. To our utter shock, she doubled over in laughter and the roof caved in. Wherever the dean of boys was at that moment, he cringed, fearing the worst.

John Hartnett & Sister Genevieve

Not all successful performances are so exuberant in nature; some take place without a sound, like the Shimmering Smile caper, conceived and put into practice by none other than John Hartnett. 

Back the truck up, you might say. I know John Hartnett. He was always conscientious, studious and respectful. He still is! Could you be thinking of someone else a bit more mischievous, like John D, perhaps? 

No, and that’s what makes it so epic, simply because it WAS John H. The venue was Mr. Hemenway’s classroom, you know, when he was a rookie, before he became Mr. HEMENWAY.

Why John wanted to torment Mr. Hemenway escapes me at the moment, if that is what orchestrating the class into inserting tin foil over our upper set of teeth, constitutes. Obviously, much planning had gone into the event because John had to have brought the foil from home, precut the pieces and distributed them to the class. 

Verified photo of John describing
exactly how big he wanted us to smile.

The first time Mr H left the classroom for any reason, John gave the signal and we all covered our choppers with the foil so that when he came back in, all of us were bent over our work like the industrious math students that Mr H. hoped we were.

Before Mr. H. had had time enough to savor what may have seemed a minor victory, John gave the fatal signal and on cue, in four-part-harmony if you will, we all slowly raised our heads and gave that nice Mr. Hemenway a bright, shimmering smile. You could have heard a nose hair break off and drop to the floor.

Mr. Hemenway

Mr. Hemenway left the classroom hurriedly, in pursuit of the aforementioned dean of boys, while forty pieces of foil were wadded up and disposed of, never to be seen again. When Mr. H. returned with the dean, forty heads were bent over their respective books again, seemingly baffled by the ridiculous accusations being sputtered out by the normally loquacious Mr. Hemenway.

None seemed more confused by the allegations than John Hartnett, as he double-checked the accuracy of an answer on his homework. Was the hypotenuse of the triangle in question, indeed, A squared plus B squared, thus proving the Pythagorean Theorem? See what I mean? How could anyone think such dastardly conduct could come from John H?

In any case, even the Pros from Dover start out as rookies and are going to get razzed early on in their careers. I am quite certain that John would assure one and all that it was nothing personal-just bid-niz. Or is there more to this story? John?

If you would like more details on this-and countless other scorching topics-I suggest you attend the reunion scheduled for this October 16th. Otherwise, you do realize what’s going to happen, don’t you? If you don’t attend? Yep, you got it.

We’re all going to sit around and gossip about YOU! And only YOU! See you there...

*** This photo of the author of Mark's Work Merritts comment for two reasons: Check out those sideburns, thus defying both school rules and Sunrize Market dress code. Secondly, I now better understand why I have worn a beard most of my life. Great success!