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2  Cats and Kids

Kittens are cute.  I do not know a person who thinks otherwise.  For certain, those people do exist, but are in a small minority.  The problem with kittens is they become cats. I know, for some people, that is a wonderful and an anticipated change.  But for me, cats are your friends only in those moments when you want to shoo them away.   At least, that was my thinking up to the end of that summer, the summer of 1960, when an abandoned, tortoise kitten changed my experience with and attitudes toward cats.

During our first summer together, many evenings Kay and I would sit out on our front porch to relax.  One night we were visited by a cute, tiny, and, I assumed, hungry kitten.  A small dish of milk was all it took for that kitten to settle down at my feet for as long as we sat out on that porch.  I cannot recall what we did to find out whose kitten was visiting us each night…probably very little.  In a short time, that kitten became a permanent boarder. Moreover, since the Pirates won the Pennant and World Series that year, we named our adopted feline, Pittsburgh.

As I stated, Pittsburgh was a tortoise.  I think I learned then that all tortoise cats are females. I did know that every orange, tiger cat is a male.  Once, I tried to find out the sex of a cat and found nary a trace of genitalia. A cat is a cat…if it has kittens, it is a female…if no kittens, who knows.

Pittsburgh stuck by me.  Even when she would hop up onto our bed, it was me she cuddled up to. I don’t recall any negative incident with her.  When we moved over to Strong Avenue, once I pulled up the driveway and parked, Kay would open the front door to the house to     let Pittsburgh come running to greet me.  Each night we would go for a walk.  As we passed each house, Pittsburgh would scurry over each lawn, and then, return to heel as I walked. I think one of her parents was a trained German Shepard.

Why this diversion telling you about Pittsburgh?  Well, somehow that dog-cat lost her virginity- she gave birth to four beautiful kittens. The importance of this event is to let you know we had three children by September of 1964. They named the kittens…Lefty (a white left front leg), Righty (a white right front leg), Smokey (all grey), and Midnight (a black cat). We found homes for Righty, Lefty, and Smokey.  Midnight joined our family which now consisted of Kay and I, our three kids, Pittsburgh, Midnight, and our adopted dog Muffie .

I realize that in one short paragraph I went from one wife and a cat to one wife, two cats, a dog, and three children.  Probably each day of that growth was a challenge; but as I look back, it was sudden…I was a father of three wonderful kids.  I would like to back up to tell you about those years.

In June of 1961, my son, Tom, came into the world. In those days, a father waited and paced in the waiting room during the birth of his child. I got to be with Kay during her 23-hour labor.  Feeling thirsty and a bit hungry, I dashed out of the room to get a coffee and a roll in the cafeteria. When I returned, the room was empty. Where did they take my wife? Did they move her to a different room? Was I in the right room? Finally, A nurse came and told me Kay was in the delivery room and everything is fine. I was directed to the waiting room.

As I stood in the waiting room staring at the morning sky, I remember thinking that this is why people have sex. There is a definite purpose to having sex, and I will refrain from that activity until we want another child.  Honestly, that thought didn’t last too long before I realized its absurdity. But that moment, realizing I was to be a father, was a moment that has never left my mind.  

Tom was a very healthy infant. His birth weight was well over 7 lbs. and he was 22” long. His head was a bit misshapen, but I was told that would correct itself and not to fret over it.  It was quite normal for baby heads to get a bit out of shape through birth. Today, knowing Tom in his humorous, self-effacing, modest way, would say his head never corrected itself and it is still out of shape.  

Our second child’s birth, Stephanie, came 18 months after Tom’s memorable entry into the world. Before going to the hospital, our plan was for me to drop Kay off at the hospital, drive Tom to grandma’s house, and return to the hospital for the birth. That would take about an hour. Based on Kay’s lengthy labor with Tom, we figured I would be back in plenty of time for the birth.  When our obstetrician learned of this, he advised me to get someone else to take Tom to grandma’s house and come into the hospital with Kay. That was a pretty smart piece of advice. I didn’t know that the labor of a second birth, in many cases, is a much shorter labor than the first.

Stephanie’s birth, in early January of 1963, was a lot different from her brother Tom’s.  Kay was in the delivery room within her first hour of labor. It seemed as though her labor was non-existent. I was ready to go to the waiting room.  Unexpectedly, I was asked to come into the delivery room and help move Kay onto the delivery table. I guess there just weren’t enough nurses available at that moment. Once she was on the table, I left for the waiting room.

But there was hardly a wait. Stephanie literally popped out into life. She weighed 4 lb. 11 oz. and was 17” long.  Her head was not misshaped. In fact, it was perfectly round.  She was perfectly proportioned, but tiny.  Unlike her brother, the birth canal posed not the least bit of obstruction to her being born.  She was real tiny in comparison to other babies born full term. Definitely, she was not premature. Delivery came nine months of pregnancy.

The hospital had a rule that newborns needed to stay in the hospital nursery until they reached five pounds. Even though she was not the smallest baby ever to be born at Elkhart General Hospital, every inch of her had the expected development of a full-term baby. There were no obvious developmental lags. Immediately after birth, her weight dropped, as does the weight of most infants. It would take an extended, and unnecessary, amount of time for her to weight to reach five pounds. When Kay was ready to leave the hospital, so was Stephanie. She was a little over 4 lbs when they left the hospital.

As I recall, when Tom was an infant, after frustrating attempts at breastfeeding, he was bottled fed with a substitute for breast milk. He quickly reached the soft foods and finally solid foods. Unlike Tom, Stephanie did not fare well with eating. She threw up just about everything she took in. It took two months before her weight was over 5 pounds. She definitely was growing, but at a snail’s pace. At 5 months, our pediatrician recommended taking Stephanie to Children’s Memorial Hospital, in Chicago, to get a second opinion. In Stephanie’s case, I would say it simply was in search of an opinion. Up to then, no one had an inkling as to why Stephanie was so small. Officially, when compared to children her age, she measured three standard deviations below the mean for height and for weight.  

Stephanie was born January 4, 1963 and by the first week of May of that year, there I was, at her crib side in Children’s Memorial Hospital, in Chicago.  She was admitted to the hospital with an admitting condition of an inability to thrive with no known diagnosis or cause.

By that time, to me, Stephanie was a phenomenon.  She could actually stand holding the rails of the crib and shake that crib with the fury of a caged raccoon.  There she was, this miniature person, this tiny little creature whose height and weight were sunk “three standard deviations below the mean”, shaking that crib as if she towered three standard deviations above.  What happened in that hospital was just the beginning of countless trips to doctors and hospitals who, frankly, discovered nothing.  Each time we went to the hospital, the medical people would take as many measurements and as much blood from Stephanie as they could.  In return, they had nothing to offer.  She was so tiny that the puncture marks of the needles that were used to get her blood would be tantamount to a wound on a normal sized person stabbed with a paring knife.  She was so tiny the only place they could draw blood was from her neck.  All this could have been okay if they would have discovered something to help her.  She had trouble holding down her food, and she was not gaining weight.

That summer as I walked through the fairgrounds in Goshen, Indiana, while holding Stephanie, I noticed red sores, or a rash, on her face and arms that I had never seen before- a new malady had made its frightful way into Stephanie’s physical health, and into our lives. At that time, we thought it was either the sun or food allergies. The spots were subcutaneous, and they would eventually erupt on the surface of her skin and bleed and then scab up. The rest of that summer, as best we could, we kept that little stinkpot out of the sun…it helped some.

We wanted Stephanie to be free of the sores and gain weight.  The trips to the doctors continued.  The measuring and the blood sucking continued with nothing in return. It was a frustrating and frightening time.  

Soon, our third child, Sarah, was born.  That was September 25, 1964.   I was adamant about wanting this child to be named Sarah.  Unbeknownst to me, my great-grandmother was a Sarah.  Our Sarah was a carbon copy of Stephanie.  Sarah was Stephanie’s twin, but just 19 months later. Stephanie, still three standard deviations below the mean, was holding down food by now and Sarah, well, she never really developed the problem.  In fact, she never threw up and she never got red spots.  Like Stephanie, Sarah was more than three standard deviations below the mean in height and in weight. Although, Sarah was not considered a patient, she still was measured on each trip to the hospitals or doctors’ offices. Hospital personnel were throwing around words like dwarfs and midgets. Either category got my defenses going. But the measuring continued, the words kept flying around, nothing was learned, and my frustration increased exponentially with each visit to these vampires.

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B2...1         A PROLOGUE REVISITED

 This blog, in essence, is Book 2 of The Life of Gitchie: Impoifect Memories. As I explained in the prologue of what could be considered Book 1, my memories are imperfect in that they have been reshaped by my attitudes, experiences, thinking, biases, etc.

This set of memoirs begins at my college graduation and my, almost simultaneous, marriage to a cute, student nurse, from Goshen, Indiana.  We were married, Friday evening, June 3, 1960, my 24th birthday.  The following afternoon, I was awarded a Bachelor of Science (BS) in Science from the University of Notre Dame.   For those in the know, before then, a BS in Science really was non-existent.  A BS needs to be in a specific science, e.g., physics, chemistry, mathematics, geology, etc.   Considering the academic program I failed to complete (i.e. pre-med), the abundance of science courses in which I attained passing grades, my persistence in completing college, and pressure from God, Himself, the Dean decided to award me a Bachelor of Science in Science.  Thank you, Dean Baldinger, and thank you, God!

As an aside and something of interest, The University, although situated on the north side of South Bend, has its own zip code.  Ergo, the University of Notre Dame du Lac is located in Notre Dame, Indiana.  There are two small lakes- St. Mary’s and St. Joseph’s.  Why the school name is Our Lady of the Lake is a mystery. There are two lakes! Our Lady of the Lakes ( Notre Dame du Lacs) would be more appropriate. When saying Notre Dame du Lac, most people, guessing which lake is being referenced, would choose St. Mary’s Lake.  However, Our Lady, the golden statue atop the Golden Dome, is not facing either lake.  St. Joe’s is at Her back and St. Mary’s to Her side. One might wonder why the school is not simply The University of Notre Dame.  

It was assumed that many girls who attended St. Mary’s were there to find a life-long mate by latching on to a Notre Dame man. That should have been absolutely demeaning to the St. Mary’s women. However, in my opinion, although a crippling monetary investment, there were a surprising number of women who were there solely to catch an ND man.  The nuns at St. Mary’s also ran another school in South Bend - The Holy Cross Central School of Nursing.  That school was adjacent to St. Joseph’s Hospital, which offered the nurses more than ample opportunities for clinical training.  Although, Kay, my new wife, who did not attend the nursing school to catch a Notre Dame man, got one!  Not only did she marry me, she then quit her nursing quest.  

A corollary to the original assumption is that Notre Dame men have great value and promise.   I think Kay and I developed a healthy view of one another.  We both had promise, and often, we both were horses’ rear ends.  We did not always agree, but we had a healthy respect for the opinions of one another.

Prior to my graduation, I had landed a job, for the coming academic year, as a science teacher at West Side Junior High School in Elkhart, Indiana.  We rented a one-bedroom bungalow downtown, on Division Street. Over the summer, beside preparing for my science classes, I was a sales rep for Cutco Cutlery, searching for unmarried, young women to buy kitchen knives and utensils for their Hope Chests.  Kay worked at Elkhart General Hospital as a nurse’s aide.  Between the two of us, we made enough money to keep ourselves afloat.

About a week before the start of the school year teachers’ meetings, I received a telephone call from Don Winne, Principal of West Side.  One of the math teachers made an unexpected move to teach in Colorado. Knowing my teaching license covered all math and physical sciences in secondary education, he asked if I would teach math instead of science.  I made the switch.  Everything changed, the subject, the books, the classroom, and my preparation. All the prep work I had done for science was for naught, and I had but a few days to be prepared for my math classes. I was to teach eighth grade classes at all levels of ability.  I have to say, since all my practice teaching was in math, being a math teacher probably was a more comfortable fit.

One of the requirements to professionalize my math license was to earn a master’s degree in mathematics or a master’s degree in education with nine hours of that degree in mathematics. Back in those days, most Hoosiers would have gotten that master’s degree at IU, Purdue, or Ball State. However, I discovered something more appealing.  Notre Dame, a close and familiar school, had two degrees in education- Secondary School Administration and Guidance and Counseling.  Knowing how defensive, and in your face, I was with authority, I opted for Guidance and Counseling.  No way was I anything like an administrator.  The nine hours of math bothered me some.  Even though I had a lot of math classes in college, I didn’t have the right courses to be a math major.  Frankly, I expected to struggle with those nine hours.

Being a junior high math teacher was ideal for me.  I knew the math, I learned a lot about kids and teaching, I was in a job I enjoyed, and I looked, at least, a year or two older than the students.  Also, the other math teachers were superb and very helpful. All was going smoothly. 

Impoifect Memories II

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Impoifect Memories II

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42  Finishing Up

I was with a group of Holy Cross nursing students, leaving Giuseppe’s Italian Restaurant in South Bend. As we crossed the street, for some reason, my back almost went out.  It jolted me. Then, while holding my back, I said out loud, “I’ve got Peter Pain”.  The girls looked at me, and then they laughed.  Realizing what I just said did not come out the way I meant it, I protested, “Wait, don’t laugh. I’ll tell you why I said that, and it has nothing to do with penises.”

 “Years ago, in the Sunday funnies, Ben Gay, a topical pain relief product, regularly would have an ad that was a half-page comic strip.  The comic strip showed why people should use Ben Gay for muscle aches and pain. Usually, the strip was about some attractive high school girl suddenly getting struck with a backache while anticipating her date with her beau.  The ache was so bad, she might not be able to go out on that date. Ben Gay showed a picture of a nasty looking, green, pimpled-faced, long-nosed troll who kicked the young girl in the back causing the extreme aches and pains. But wait! A personified tube of Ben Gay comes to the rescue and thwarts that nasty troll’s efforts by booting that troll to Kingdom Come. The troll’s name-Peter Pain.  It’s my back, ladies, that’s where the troll attacked me.  I have back pain!”

 Why tell you such an embarrassing moment?  My future wife, Kay Middleton, was in that group.  She seemed to laugh louder than anyone else.  She was a cute 4’11’ terror, with a marvelous brain and a quick sense of humor.  We didn’t have a huge amount of time to be together.  Her school had a locked door by 8:30 at night.  It was a known fact that dating a Holy Cross Central School of Nursing student meant getting her back to the dorm by 8:25, at the very latest. Finding time during the days was difficult.  However, we managed to find time on the weekends and early evenings.  Nothing monumental occurred in our relationship, other than falling in love, and planning to marry on the evening of June 3rd- my 24th birthday, and the night before my graduation.

 Before I share with you more of all that, I would like to tell you a bit about my job hunting effort. I put my first resume together. That was a tough task.  I did nothing in college other than going to class. I had no awards, either academic or non-academic.  I quit college twice, taking six years to graduate.  Other than the second semester of my freshman year and my entire senior year, my grades were atrocious,

Finally, my degree was tailor made just so I could graduate.  Naturally, I did not stress any of that on my resume.  What I did point out was that I was qualified to teach all mathematics and physical sciences in grades 7 through 12.  The other information on my resume was my extensive work experience…Nassau County (lifeguard), Good Humor Corp. (ice cream salesman), Apostle Realty (real estate salesman), St. Joseph Hospital (porter, housekeeper), Cutco Cutlery (sales rep), J C Penney (salesman-women’s shoes and boy’s clothing).  For obvious reasons, I omitted my dynamic, expert pizza making.  

I had help from the counseling office in putting that resume together. The guy, who gave me that interest test before I quit school the first time, knew about resumes. His name- Pete Grande.  He later became one of my closest friends. Pete also helped with a letter of introduction/inquiry that would accompany my resume.  I applied only to schools in Northern Indiana.  In about a week, I received a phone call from Don Winne, Principal of West Side Junior High School, in Elkhart, Indiana.  Mr. Winne asked me to interview for a position to teach science starting in the Fall.  Everything went smoothly at the interview.  Mr. Winne was a straight shooter, and we got along really well. It wasn’t long after the interview that I got a call from him offering me the science job.   Wow! That was easier than I thought.  I’m going to be a science teacher!  Right then, I should have rushed to the library to find information on how to keep science labs from being boring.

Next, was to make sure I was getting things done for graduation.  My mother was coming, staying at a hotel in Elkhart.  Daddy and Phyllis would also be there.  They would stay with Harriet and Wally in South Bend. Naturally, Harriet and Wally would be at my graduation, as well.  You are not going to believe who else was coming to my graduation…Dwight David Eisenhower, President of the United States.  I don’t know who told him I was graduating.  But somehow someone must have told him.  Ike, as I affectionately called him, was a very admired figure at Notre Dame.  So, lots of folks in the surrounding area would crash the ceremonies.  His presence might diminish the importance of the graduating students.  Anyway, what mattered to me was to hold that degree in my hands.   Holding that degree in my cap and gown would make for an awesome picture.

Before graduation, however, comes my wedding.  Early Friday evening, June 3, 1960, Kay and I were married at the First Presbyterian Church in Goshen, Indiana.  Other than how pretty Kay looked and me crying as I repeated my vows, I cannot remember a thing.  Probably, I could tell you who absolutely was there, but it truly would be just a guess, e.g., our parents and relatives living close by.  Her friends, but none of mine. Jim Van Petten would have been my only close friend living in the Midwest, and I know he wasn’t there.  I can’t even remember my best man.  I assume it was my brother Mickey.  At his wedding in 1956, my legs trembled so bad, I had to hold on to a three-foot barrier in front of the first-row pew. Mickey would likely have been the best man.  We were about as close as brothers can be.  As for a reception, we didn’t have a big dinner or party.  Just a small gathering next to the church.  I think it was ideal.  After the wedding and cake, people still had time to go to the movie. Kay and I drove to the house we had rented on Division St, in Elkhart, the town where my teaching career would begin in the Fall.  I would continue with my Cutco job through the summer, selling knives for the hope chests of girls in that town.

The next morning, we rode to my graduation together.  Other than a football game, I never saw that many people at Notre Dame.  Rather than being at the stadium, our graduation was on the mall between the Post Office and Alumni Hall.  Like I said, there were slews of people who came to hear President Eisenhower’s address, which turned out to be a pretty major address regarding Viet Nam.  Before we all received our degrees, Ike made his exit.  That was followed by many, many folks leaving the ceremony, making what would have been a normal sized audience seem very small.  It was as though nobody gave a crap about us graduating.

Nonetheless, I was proud to be a Notre Dame Alumnus.  I had a wife, a college degree, and a job.  I was quite happy.  Swiftly, I was on my way to adulthood.  

                                               End of Blog

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41 An Easy Way Out

Back to school I went. Actually, I made two trips to South Bend.  The first was a brief trip to meet with Dean Baldinger, find a place to live, and to check on a lead for a job.  Even though I made good money selling ice cream, I was not good at holding on to it.  Income was an essential. The second trip was on The Pennsylvania Railroad, my usual transportation from home to school.

 I remember telling you about John Murray, my best friend at home, who, before reaching his teens, burned his legs, horribly, jumping over a leaf fire while wearing fuzzy western chaps. Well, the insurance settlement gave him the cash to purchase a blue,1958 Chevy Impala convertible.  So, in the summer of 1959, he offered to drive me out to Notre Dame and back.  His Catholic upbringing played heavily in his decision to drive me.  I believe many Spanish pilgrims would have skipped Majorca, if an ocean hadn’t separated them from the land of Notre Dame, God’s favorite place…and football team. The miracles of football have always been attributed to the presence and efforts of the Holy Ghost.  It made sense John wanted to take me out there. Probably, it was the last thing we did together.  It didn’t matter what I showed John.  He was overwhelmed with the gold statue, atop the Golden Dome, of Our Lady of the Lake…Notre Dame du Lac-the actual name of the University.  

Truthfully, I have a shaky memory of when different things happened on that trip.  I remember feeling very suspicious of the Dean’s constant support and encouragement.  What I began to think was the Sisters of the Holy Cross, Sister Peter in particular, were behind it all…or maybe even Father O’Brian.  Most likely, credit goes to St. Dean Baldinger, who encouraged us all.  I was welcomed back, and he told me to select my courses at registration.  

 Next, we traveled to the home of Mrs. Agnes Tomlison, a tiger of a woman at eighty-six years, who could look at you with that same piercing eye as Sister Peter, and lick her lips the same way as my special angelic nun.  My friend Don Tanguay, who had lived there the previous year, recommended me as a good Catholic student whom she could trust.  When I interviewed, that lie continued.  I also told her I was Catholic.  She then took a few rocks in her rocking chair, gave me a piercing eye while licking her lips, agreed to my living there, and got up from the chair to show me the room.  It was upstairs.  She then gave me a vital responsibility.  Each morning as I leave for school, I am to look to see if the living room shade is up or down.   If it was still down, that meant she was dead, and I should call her son.

 Before John and I left to return to New York, I checked to see if there were any jobs on campus that would fit my schedule. I can’t remember how I got the info, but Louie Rappelli was setting up a pizza parlor, and he needed students.  I went over to the building in which he was located and talked with him.  He owned another restaurant, on Notre Dame Avenue, which I frequented. So, he was glad to see me, and promised me a job when I returned to school.  Back to New York we went, and back to Good Humor for me. That was a real successful trip. Now all I had to do was register for my classes.

 My educational situation was really not too bad.  I had just a couple of science credits to graduate with the degree in science promised to me by the Dean.  I just had to take enough course to reach the 132 credits needed for graduation. If I kept my nose to the grindstone, I would be an alumnus on June 4, 1960. Naturally, medical school was not in my future, but graduating was clearly in view.

 When it was time to return to Notre Dame, Mother, Joe, and Al took me to Penn Station.  We got to the platform just as the conductor yelled, “All Aboard.”  Quietly, Al said to me, “Don’t come home without a G--Damn degree”. I picked up my baggage and walked toward the entrance to the train.  Just as I boarded, I could hear Al yell these unforgettable words, “Take education, it’s easy!”   So, when I got back to school, I visited the education department.  

 Get this! All I had to do were education classes, and I could graduate with my science degree (as long as I met those requirements) and apply for a State license to teach all math and physical sciences in Secondary Education.  The courses I needed were as follows: Principles of Secondary Education, Materials and Methods of Secondary Education, Tests and Measurements, Educational Statistics, and Practice Teaching.  I signed up for Geology and Lab, Intro to Analysis, Calculus I and II to meet the science requirements.  I was short five hours to reach the 132 credits to graduate.  I took care of that the day I signed up for courses for my final semester. I decided to take five hours of piano.  I went over to the Music Department to see if a piano teacher would take me on.  To my disappointment, all the piano teachers’ schedules were full.   I guess my disappointment radiated from my being.  A very nice man, who saw my sad face, asked if he could help.  I told him about needing 5 hours to graduate and my plans to take piano, but the piano teachers had no openings.  He asked me if I would be okay with 5 hours of violin. I jumped at that opportunity and signed up for the 5 hours. He was a professor of violin.  His name- Charles Biando.  Little did I know, Mr. Biando was considered the primo violin teacher in the Midwest.  Clearly, without question, he was simply helping me to graduate.  Everything I played that semester sounded like “Mary had a little lamb”.  I did learn how to not screech the violin.

I’m not too sure whether I made a turnaround academically, and became a better student; or perhaps, Al was right- Education was easy.  I enjoyed visiting the public schools and observing classes, in all disciplines.  As I learned about theories of teaching and learning, I wondered about the kind of teacher I would be, and how I would relate to students and to other teachers.  By the end of that first semester, I found a student teaching position at John Adams High School in South Bend.  Mr. Volney Wier, head of the Mathematics Department, would be my supervising teacher.  He taught, Algebra, Trigonometry, and Solid Geometry.  My supervisor from Notre Dame, Dr. Jerry Fargin was to observe me, and then, discuss with Mr. Weir my progress.  Both teachers would contribute to my final evaluation.

 My primary job was to teach trigonometry.  At first, I observed that class for about a week before I took over the reins.  Mr. Wier’s style of lesson plans fit me to a tee. He did not make elaborate plans. Each day, he would look in the book to find the topics to be covered, and he would make a list of those topics.  I liked that, and I did mine the same way.  I would list the topics, and I would make darn well sure I understood all the topics before teaching them to the class.  Once the bell rang to start each class, we would first go over the homework that was due.  Then, I would present new topics to the students, assign homework, and give them class time to get started on that assignment.  I enjoyed the students, immensely.  We solved problems together, and had a few good laughs doing it.   I can distinctly remember thinking… wow, this is fun! I can’t believe I can get paid for telling others what I know!  

 Ironically, I also learned that I could get paid for not telling students what I know. One day, I had to teach Mr. Wier’s Solid Geometry class without any preparation. The class consisted of five seniors and me.  I had them put their assignment problems on the blackboard, after which, we would review each problem, together.  I basically kept my mouth shut as the five of them asked each other questions and fully discussed the problems.  I learned a lot just by watching and listening to them.  When the bell rang, they thanked me for one of the best classes they ever had. Yes, if I was getting paid, I would have been paid for that performance.

The day Dr. Fargin made his required observation of my teaching, he made it a surprise visit.  My lecture was really short and in my eyes, him showing up that day would make for a disastrous experience.   After going over the homework, I was to teach them about radians. I told you about the second time I took the New York State Regents exam in Trigonometry.   I missed one question on the entire exam - it was on radians.  I told the students because of my experience learning about radians, I decided to give them a very brief lesson, then assign them lots of problems to solve for their assignment, which they might complete by the end of the period.  Dr. Fargin saw me teach for ten to fifteen minutes, and the rest of the time, he watched me move around the classroom helping the students.  I was certain, this did not look good.  He would probably have to observe my teaching, again… and I would still end up with a crappy grade.  However, the next day, on campus, another education student, whose name I cannot remember, saw me in the Student Center.  “Hey Rich”, he yelled, “you should have heard Dr. Fargin talk to our class about his observation of your teaching.  He raved about you?  He said you were masterful.”  Dr. Fargin was impressed by my honesty with the students and the appropriate response to my own experience, i.e., the brief lecture followed by me walking around the room helping those students in need.  My Practice Teaching final grade was a well deserved A+. That happened the second semester about six weeks before graduation

That was the Spring semester.  But, I would like to back up to the first semester of that year to tell you a few important memories.  I’ll start with Mrs. Tomlison.  Daily, she got outside to sweep the front steps. The front door was at least a story and a half higher than the street.  There had to be fifteen to twenty steps for her to clean.  What a marvel of a women! Even on a windy Fall day, she’d have her coat, her babushka, and the broom, sweeping those steps clean.  Another memory I have of her was her love of soap operas, especially “The Edge of Night”.   If I was home by 4 PM, I’d sit with her and watch that show. I thought it made her happy that we did this together. The greatest memory of Agnes Tomlison was her desire to leave this earth and enter God’s Kingdom.  Every Saturday night, she would get all dolled up in her most beautiful dress, lie down on her bed, and ask God to take her.  Each Sunday morning when she woke up, you could hear her disappointment resonate throughout the house- ”Goddamnit!”  I heard God finally welcomed her ten years later- she was 96. I’ll bet St. Peter needed help with the steps in front of the Pearly Gates!

 It should be clear to you that my academic life and my future were successfully merging.  My classes were going well, and I was gaining confidence in myself.  My job at the new pizza parlor was great.  I was making minimum wage plus free meals.  I suppose, when I look at it, I was smoothly sailing as a student toward graduation and a future. That didn’t mean my mind had matured beyond my ability of doing stupid things. On a Saturday late in the football season, I received a call from Jim. He and Tom, now both alumni, were in town and wanted me to join them for supper and fun.  But I had to work.  Tom thought of a scheme that would make our reunion possible…and I went along with it. He called Louie Rappelli, my boss, and pretended to be a doctor from St. Joseph’s Hospital.  He told Louie that I was in a car accident, and although I had no signs of physical injury, he wanted me to stay in the hospital overnight.  Yeah! I was free to join them.  I cannot remember anything about that evening, but what happened the next day was unforgettable.  I walked into work and was greeted by Louie with “Get the hell out of here!” I lost my job. Maybe Tom wasn’t very convincing, or, more likely, it was a super, stupid thing to do.   I now needed to find a job-FAST!  And that’s what I did.  I landed a sales job with Cutco Cutlery, a division of Alcoa.  I would talk with young gals and talk them into buying knives and other kitchen utensils for their hope chests.  Believe it or not, I was fairly successful.  I made enough to keep my head above water. Also, to this day, I am sold on Cutco products.

[rtirman-blog]

40  The Punk and the Bungalow Bar

Each summer on the north shore of Nassau County, a relatively small beach town, was literally invaded by ice cream trucks.  The interesting thing about the ice cream trucks and the town, Bayville, was that all the ice cream vendors were at the beach while the sun was strong.  People would start leaving the sands in the very late afternoons. There were several long courts, orCul-de -Sacs, that ended at the beach.  I can’t remember the Good Humor Man’s name, but I can tell you how he handled his job. He spent the daylight hours at the ends of those courts selling his wares.  He made good money.  The rest of the town never saw a Good Humor Man, until sunset, or after.

 John, my District Manager, sensed there were a whole lot of sales being missed in Bayville.  He asked if, during sunlight, I would sell ice cream through the streets of the town, and then hit the courts by the beach when the sun goes down.  Essentially, he was asking me to run that route backwards.  I agreed to give it a go.  By my second week on the route, I was doing as well as Bayville’s other Good Humor Man.  

Yes, he was making money at the beach, and I was making as much money ringing bells on every street in the town.  When the evening came, he was to do the streets I did during the day, and I was to sell ice cream on those beach courts.  I remember telling you that if I counted my sales at 6 pm, I would make double that from 6-9pm. That’s exactly what happened.  Those were really busy hours for me.  That route became one of the best routes in Nassau County.

 One day near the end of my daytime route, it was already getting dark.  I turned my display lights on and lightly rang the bells.  At night, the sound of those bells seemed louder and clearer.  As I moved swiftly through the streets, I was waved down by a few kids.  As I was getting their ice cream, I heard the bells of another ice cream truck.  

 “Sounds like another ice cream truck”, I said.

 “Yeah, it’s the Bungalow Bar Man”, shouted one of the kids. “He just came down this street about ten minutes ago.”

 I thought what is he doing here? He knows this is my territory.  Well, actually, he had every right to be there, but true to an unwritten agreement, it was a “no! no!” to ride through someone else’s route right before they got there.  I wouldn’t have done that to him.  I worked hard to have people expecting me.  When they hear the bells of my truck, they begin to salivate, run for their money, and hustle outside to chase me down.  If it ends up being Bungalow Bar, it doesn’t matter to a lot of folks- the response to the stimulus is in motion.  Many folks might stop in their tracks once they see the Bungalow Bar truck…”Oh, forget about it, it’s not Good Humor…Rich should be coming buy any minute”, But not everybody is adult enough to delay gratification for a better ice cream and ice cream salesman.  The bells of the Bungalow Bar truck were a threat to my livelihood!  As soon as those kids turned away from my truck, I quickly hopped into the driver’s seat, turned off the display lights, grabbed the bell rope taut so the bells would not jingle, and dashed out of that neighborhood in search of this Bungalow Bandit!

 I went straight for the beach Cul-de-Sacs. A smart move, if I may say so myself.  I found him!  On one of those long streets, there was that truck, gingerly moving toward the beach with its bells jingling all the way.  What should I do!  How could I get this idiot off my route- never to return?

 I then heard the voice of the Good Humor God- Bill Frank.  “Think Rich! What did I show you on your very first day with Good Humor?”

I knew, instantly, what to do.  I turned my truck toward the beach, and followed Mr. Bungalow Bar, as he rang his bells to the dead end.  About twenty yards behind him, I stopped, turned my truck to span the sidewalks on each side.   Then, I turned on my display lights, took the keys out of the ignition and put them in my pocket, grabbed the bell cord while standing on the running board, and rang those bells as loud as I could.  By the time Mr. Bungalow Bar got his truck turned around, he found himself trapped by my truck…which I was not about to move until I was through selling ice cream.  

 The noise of my bells and two ice cream trucks at the end of the Cul-de-Sac caused quite a commotion. Up and down the street, just about every front door light went on.  Everyone, and I mean everyone, came to my truck to buy ice cream, while Mr. Bungalow Bar Man sat on the fender of his truck watching me make a shitload of sales. Some folks quietly cheered me on with words of encouragement.  They knew full well, I built up the route and Bungalow Bar should have either not shown up there or waited until after I left the neighborhood.  It was a very profitable experience, and I was quite proud of myself.  

After everyone was gone, the Bungalow Bar man came walking toward me yelling I was unfair and I should not have done that. I retorted with words about he knew damn well he was in my territory.  He got right in my face, and then, pushed me.  I punched him.  Next thing, we were fighting on one of the lawns. People were watching us through their windows.  Isn’t that nuts!  Can you imagine looking out your window to see two ice cream men battling it out on your lawn. Fists were flying along with ice cream spoons, and my hat.  A few people came out of their homes to break us up, calm us down, and help us to get on our way.  Before I returned to the Good Humor barn, I made sure I jingled down the remaining beach dead endstreets  so as to not disappoint my customers who were waiting for me.

 When I reached Good Humor, I ordered my ice cream for the next day, and went inside to count, and turn in, my money.  I told a few guys of my experience with Bungalow Bar, got in my car and rode home. All-in-all, I was very pleased with the way in which I protected my route.  I was certain I would never see that Bungalow Bar guy again…How wrong I was!

 When I got to Good Humor mid-morning the next day John, my manager, was waiting for me.  

 “Jesus, Rich, what the hell is wrong with you!  You and I have to go to Bungalow Bar, right now!  The guy you had the fight with is 53 years old, and he’s considering pressing charges!”

In a scared voice, I defended myself. “He pushed me first!”  I touted.

After telling him the whole story, he calmly said, “Okay Rich, let’s go to Bungalow Bar and straighten all this out.  

 We got in his car, and made the trip to Wyandanch, home of the bungalow Bar Barn.

It seemed like every Bungalow Bar Man, the Devil created, were lined up to greet me.  Like a military wedding where the bride and groom walk through an aisle of service men on each side, John Gormley and I walked through an aisle of Bungalow Bar Men yelling, “You Punk!  You GD Punk!  F----ng Punk!”  There had to be a hundred of them.  Punk was their favorite word.

When we got inside the building, I defended myself, made it clear that I was acting in self-defense, and ultimately, I apologized.  The strange thing about all this was that my 53 year old competitor wasn’t present at that meeting.  The entire incident became lore.  I never saw Bungalow Bar on my route after that, and I never had to go to court.

 By this time, I was really leaning toward getting back to school to finish up a degree in something. I was out on the Island at a college graduation party for some guy I didn’t know.  He had just graduated from Notre Dame, the college I should have graduated from the year before.   Here I was, congratulating him.  I experienced him as a blowhard.  At that party, I met a guy who went to Pace College, the school Sally wanted to go to when she got out of high school.  I asked this guy if he had ever heard of her.  He said, of course, she was labeled the college “punch board”.  

 I can’t express to you how much that stung.  I felt bad for her, I resented anyone who slept with her (because I never did), and I felt lonely and sad.  I wasted no time getting out of there.  That night, as I thought about the blowhard who just graduated, I thought about what a jerk he was, and then it hit me!  Who’s the jerk?  He’s sitting there with a degree while I’m  a non-degreed Good Humor Man who beats up Bungalow Bar Men.  Like Bill, my old friend from Apostle Realty, advised, “Rich, go back to school and finish your degree”

[rtirman-blog]

39  The Flatbush Fireball

I was on Long Island early enough to start up my Good Humor route in Glen Head, late that March. This meant that my life at home, rather than being different as I had imagined, was going to be much the same. Perhaps, I will put my thoughts together and come up with a plan for my future.  I was grateful Good Humor was there.  I made very good money during the ice cream season.  Even though I was able to start in late March, people weren’t running for my truck until May.  My best income months were May through August. My thinking was to come up with a plan for my future that I could start in September or October.

 Again, like the previous summer, nothing spectacular happened on my route throughout that summer. As a Good Humor Man, I saw myself as a top money maker.  In reality, I was doing very well, but I probably was in the upper third of the money makers.  I suppose in working for Good Humor, I was able to have feelings of self-worth and the ability to make it in this world.  By the end of the summer, I decided to look for a job in the City.  I could stay with my father and Phyllis while I hunted for a position.  

 It’s a mystery to me how real estate popped up in my mind.  All I know is I was hired by Apostle Reality as a real estate salesman.  The office was on Flatbush Avenue, about a block north of the junction of Flatbush and Nostrand Avenues.   It was right where the IRT Subway ended.  If you needed to go further south in Brooklyn, you could walk, take a taxi, or ride the bus.

 In order to sell houses, I studied, took a prep course, and passed the State licensure exam for real estate sales.  By taking that prep course, which was sanctioned by the Real Estate Commission, it seemed as though I had previously seen every question on the exam I was given.  That was the first time I had ever taken a three-day prep course for anything. I think it worked well for me because by taking the actual exam immediately following the three-day course, everything I learned was fresh in my mind.  In high school, I didn’t have to take the SATs. But if I would have taken the SATs, I would have signed up for a prep course, and one that met on days very close to the actual SAT exam.

While preparing for and taking that real estate exam, things with my father and Phyllis were not working out well.  They had only one bedroom.  Since Daddy arrived home each night close to 1 A.M., I would fall asleep in their bed. Phyllis would wait up for him. When they were ready to hit the hay, they would turn their couch into a bed, and I would then go into the living room to sleep, and they would take their own room.  It wasn’t ideal for any of us.  I needed to find my own apartment.  First, I needed a roommate. When I told my cousin Walter, a.k.a. Butch, about looking for a roommate, he offered himself.  You may recall I attended his 12th Birthday celebration when I bedazzled that girl with my Humphry Bogart style kiss during spin the bottle.

Butch was still two years younger than me.  He was working at a cardboard box manufacturing plant in Queens.  But most important in Butch’s life, was his relationship to God.  He was a Billy Graham enthusiast, and a committed Christian. Since we always got along, having him as a roommate would be perfect.  We found a third-floor apartment in a house on Kenilworth Pl. The owner, Manny, felt Jesus had brought us to him in our time of need.  One thing Manny did insist upon- we were not to have girls in the apartment. That was fine with both of us.  It was a great place to live.  The apartment was clean and comfortable, close to everything, especially to my work- the walk was five minutes.

 At Apostle Realty, I worked diligently at my own desk.  At the start, the firm provided me several leads, and I learned how to greatly increase that number by asking for referrals and giving folks my business card. I began showing houses in November. I tried to make myself a busy guy, showing homes to as many folks as I could.  Somedays, I would go to homes for sale and talk with owners and other salesmen persons. I sold nothing in November, nothing in December, and nothing in January. I told myself people were busy with the holidays.  Since, Apostle gave me a small salary until I actually sold my first home, I needed to keep at it. The real estate commission was 5% of the selling price.  Apostle Realty, my broker, got half, and I would get the other half of that commission. Not selling anything for three months, I was getting pretty discouraged.  Then came February!

Early in February, I escorted a couple to a home for sale by another broker.   The house just came on the market.   I knew nothing about it, but we looked at it anyway.

We walked through the house without me saying a word. We stopped in a bedroom. The couple, to whom I was showing the house, started measuring that room.  The husband turned to me and told me if this measures right, you’ve sold yourself a house.  That’s just what happened.  They paid full price for the home, and were ecstatic…and so was I.  The seller talked to John Apostle about me and my expertise in showing the home. As I told you, I said nary a word.

 My next sale was pretty similar, only, it was closer to our office.  The home was a Calder (the builder), and those houses sold quickly. It was if I had the golden ticket.  The people, to whom I showed it, bought it instantly.  Keeping my mouth shut seemed like a great technique.  I always made sure I knew what people wanted, and I chose homes that were as close to what they desired.

 In mid-February, I was a co-seller with a salesperson who showed me, and my clients, a house in Bensonhurst, a Brooklyn neighborhood west of Flatbush.  Naturally, I had to share that commission with the other salesman.

 Then came the Delellis family from the Bronx.  They were delightful people whom I had met before.  They had a reputation of being lookers, but they would never buy.  Just about every salesperson on Flatbush Avenue had shown houses to the Delellis family. But something was happening to my luck. I was rolling 7’s throughout February. My luck meshed with Mr. Delellis’s bad luck.  He and his family were being forced to move, through no fault of their own, and had to find another home.  They called me to see if there was a home for sale near the subway.  I just happened to view a home, right on Flatbush Avenue, two or three doorways from the subway stairs.  Mr. and Mrs. Delellis hustled down to Brooklyn to meet me.  I made arrangements to show them the house as soon as they arrived. As soon as we walked into the house, the two of them were excited.  The house was perfect for their needs, close to the subway, and for sale at a very reasonable price.

The word got around that I sold four houses in February, and most impressively, I did the impossible- I sold a home to the Delellis family.  I was soon known throughout Brooklyn realty offices as “The Flatbush Fireball!”  Hey, you need to buy a home? You need to sell a home?  Go see “Da Flatbush Fireball”!

 Truly, I was on fire. But if you stay at a craps table long enough, things will, eventually, go in the other direction.  The owners of gambling casinos don’t have craps tables in their casinos to lose money!

 One evening, when I arrived home, Butch was having sex with a gal.  Mr. Christian was now Mr. Sinner.  Whoa! I take that back.  He was now Mr. Mortal Sinner…he was banging her in my bed!  You would think he would have been kind enough to do it in his own bed. Making matters worse, somehow, Manny was aware of his devilish deed, and asked us to find another place.

Butch went back home, and I went back to my father’s apartment until I could find another place to live.  The second thing occurred as I was sitting at my desk trying to figure things out. Sitting next to me was an older guy, perhaps in his fifties, who looked at me and told me that real estate wasn’t for me. He told me real estate was for older folks.  He wanted me to seriously think about returning to school, finishing my degree, and doing something with my life.  His name was Bill, and I sensed that these remarks came from his heart. I think Bill saw me as his son or grandson.  I really did look up to him.  I wish I had thanked him and told him that I heard him, clearly.  His words had an impact, and they made me question and evaluate what I was doing with my life.  It was good money when I sold a home.  However, there are many months real estate salesmen make nothing, yet they put in impossible hours.  If I ever was going to get married and be a dad, that kind of job wouldn’t be so great. Bill was probably right.

 It was already March, and I could go back to Point Lookout, and to Good Humor, for the summer.  I was leaning toward finishing college, but I wasn’t set on it. Furthermore, would Notre Dame even think about taking me back, or would I have to transfer to another school?  Also, what would I study?  So back to Long Island I went.  Back to Good Humor, where the money was good, and the work was steady.

[rtirman-blog]

38  “Gone Baby GONE”

Following an uneventful summer of selling ice cream, I returned to South Bend to finish my education. At that juncture, I was a year and a half away from my degree, with a rat’s rear-end of a chance to get into medical school, and absolutely no idea of where my life was headed.  At least, I would have a degree, and perhaps something would pop up before I would graduate.

 Once I got to Notre Dame, I checked in with Black Mac’s office to find a list of pre-approved places to live, and I found a room downtown.  It was a one bedroom with a bath in an approved boarding house.  It was about 2 blocks from the bus.  In a current issue of one of the leading magazines, I found a picture (and hung it up!) of a Norwegian skier who could have been Sally’s twin.   By never calling or writing her, I think I did a great job of separating myself from her.  But, I really missed her.  When I would dwell on her, knowing full well I could not back up in my life, I ached.

 Next, I was to meet with Dean Baldinger to figure out my class schedule.  I was convinced I was done with pre-med.  But how do I move forward in the University, and ultimately, in my life?  Talking to Dean Baldinger was always a lift for me.  He told me there was a way the University could grant me a degree in Science. Knowing labs and I did not mesh well, he suggested I take mathematics.   I would not receive a mathematics degree, but math credits are science credits.  That seemed like a sensible move.  I did have to have my second year of foreign language.  Dr. Baldinger started to enroll me in German II.  I told him, that would be suicide for me, as I did poorly in first year German, and it was a long time since then. He made a compromise. I could take five-day per week French for one semester.  That would be equivalent to one full year of French.  I would graduate with one year of German and one year of French to meet the two years of a language requirement.  Dr. Baldinger’s intentions were clear.  He was going to do all in his power to help me.

 The year was 1957-58. If I had moved along “correctly”, that semester should have been the first semester of my senior year rather than the second semester of my junior year.  Oh, well, I’m moving forward.  I did enroll in a science class other than math- Comparative Vertebrate Anatomy.  Also, I was enrolled in Basic Accounting to meet core curriculum requirements.  Finally, I enrolled in Algebra and Trigonometry, taught by Jake Kline, the legendary manager of Notre Dame varsity baseball.  In all, I had 20 hours of classes.

 When I was in eighth grade, all eighth graders took a smattering of foreign languages- French, German, Latin, and Spanish.  We took about six weeks of each language.  This was to give us an idea of what language to study in high school. Also, we all were given a test to see if we had the ability to learn a language.  That was absurd.  Every one of us learned English. None of us were born knowing a language.   It would make more sense, if the test was trying to see who has the ability to learn a language in the way it was taught. Anyway, I liked French the most. But I decided to take Latin, to improve my vocabulary and to learn the basis of the Romantic Languages…yes, in retrospect, I should have studied French in high school.

 Monsieur Charles Roedig was my French professor.  Each day, he would hand out sheets with French expressions and sentences with their English Translations.  We would be quizzed on those sheets, regularly.  I studied hard.  After 5 of those quizzes, I had a 99% average.   Then came the day, as Monsieur Roedig was teaching, I turned around to say something to a nearby student.  “Monsieur Tirman, just because you are on the Dean’s list, it doesn’t give you the right to come to this class and disrupt it.”  

 I apologized to him, and to the class.  It then dawned on me that Monsieur Roedig thinks I’m on The Dean’s List.  That means I have unlimited cuts in his class. The rule at the University was that each student was allowed to miss the number of class sessions equal to the number of credit hours the course offers.  However, if your grades were high enough to place you on the Dean’s list, absence from class was never recorded, except when there was a test.  Dean’s List student had to be present for tests.  I skipped out the remainder of the semester, showing up for just quizzes and exams.  I basically stopped studying.  My French grade began to drop quickly. By the time the final exam rolled around, I would need to pass it to pass the class.

 The final examination of all levels of French were administered simultaneously in the engineering building. As I walked through the main hallway going to the room for my final exam, Mr. Roedig saw me, and waved for me to go over to him.  When I got there, he said, “Tirman, I found out you are not on the Dean’s list.”  

 Fearfully, I responded, “I never said I was.”  

 He looked at me, smiled and said, “Well, you got away with it.  But you have to pass the final to get a passing grade for the course.”

 Whew!  That was a relief.  But could I get a passing grade?”

The answer to that question was yes, that is, if it was preceded by me studying and preparing for the test.  That is something I did not do.  Even though I was not a Catholic, jokingly, I prayed to St. Jude, the Saint for lost causes, for help. No help there…I got a 33%.  What kind of a Saint abandons you when you need help?   However, perhaps, he did not abandon me - Monsieur Roedig, graciously, gave me a passing grade of D for the course.  What a relief!  I wonder if St. Jude found a way to answer my prayer by calling upon his descendent, Monsieur Charles Roedig.

 My highest grade that semester was an 80% in accounting. I flunked Comparative Anatomy, got through Algebra and Trig by the skin of my teeth, and did not have my heart into anything. I was simply not succeeding.  I felt totally lost.  Even after, “successfully”, completing my language requirement, I decided to quit college for good.  I left the school without talking to the Dean, or anyone else. I packed up, and left South Bend, and Notre Dame, for good.  I had no concrete idea of what I would do once I got home.  My guess, it would be totally different.

 Since there were no more children at home, Mother sold the house in Freeport and bought a smaller home on Long Island, in Point Lookout, a beach town, and port, at the far east end of Long Beach.  She should have kept the house in Freeport because she had two grown offspring (Al, age 27, and yours truly, age 22) physically fighting in her modest sized living room.  Since both of us were Good Humor Men, we needed pressed, white, shirts every day. After I had just gotten my shirts out of the cleaners, Al decided he would wear one.  They cost me 19 cents each to be cleaned and pressed.  I was pissed he would use one of my shirts without asking me.  I confronted him, and all hell broke loose.  We were like two animals biting and clawing at one another as our mother stood there screaming.  I’ll bet she was deliriously happy to have two of her grown up boys at home. Thankfully, that was the last fisticuffs between Al and me to this very day.

 On one of my nights off, I was having a few drinks at the Click. It was about 9 P.M. There was a bit of commotion outside the bar, so I went out there to see what was going on.  There was a pretty cute gal, in a waitress uniform, standing there with her bicycle asking if anyone could give her a ride home. Her bike was in need of a fix. She was a waitress at a downtown Elks Club, or something like that. Since I was the only one with a car, I said I would be happy to give her a ride home. She lived in Freeport’s south side. I put her bike in the back seat of my ’54 Chevy 210 convertible, she hopped in the passenger seat, and I got behind the wheel.  She was pretty, talkative, and friendly.  The drive to her house was too short. I liked her a lot, and I wanted more time with her. Her name was Sandy.  Before I could ask her to not call it a night, she asked me to go for a drink or two after she got out of her waitress uniform and put on something more comfortable.  Yes, ma’am! I was in seventh heaven.  Here was this girl, pretty as a picture, wanting to spend time with me.  I took her to a popular bar on the north side of town. We talked, and we laughed.  She had a brain, a sense of humor, and she was fun to be with.  She was a girl so comfortable with herself that I was comfortable being with her. Everything felt natural.

 After an hour, or so, we left the bar, and drove to a place to park.  I wanted to make out with her.  As soon as I stopped and turned off the car, we were in one another’s arms.  I soon had my hands under her blouse unfastening her bra.  To my surprise she was unzipping my pants.  Before I could apologize for my small genitalia, she was saying how beautiful things were.  She was pleased.  In an instant, I was having intercourse with her.  My thoughts were unbelievable - This is it! I am actually getting laid…my virgin years are over!  And the size of my penis was pleasing.

 Suddenly, a flashing light interrupted my thoughts and our love making.  A police car drove by slowly, shining a flashlight at us. Instead of stopping, it drove down to the end of the lot in which we were parked.  Both of us got our clothes on in a hurry.  I started the car, and we left in a jiffy.  That, I suspect, is what that cop wanted us to do.  He gave us a chance to scoot, and he didn’t follow or chase us.  After the drive to her apartment, we talked and laughed about what could have happened. We made plans to be with each other the next night, after I finished work.  

I remember the night Hazer lost his virginity.  He made a star, and pasted it above his door for Tom, Jim, and me to see.  I could not celebrate like that, but I knew, in my heart, I was a star!  But the following night might suggest something else.  After work, I picked Sandy up and we drove to Point Lookout. It was late, and it was dark.

On my mother’s porch there was a sofa/daybed.  We sat down, then quickly laid down. Before you could say “Jack Robinson” Sandy was giving me a BJ.  Wow, unquestionably, she was a girl of firsts.  Suddenly, I heard a rather large cough, and it was not coming from Sandy. It was coming from the living room. It was easy to hear because the large window between the living room and porch was wide open.

It was my mother’s cough letting us know she was “asleep” on the couch.  What did we do?  We got our clothes on in a hurry and scooted out of there.  We laughed.  My mother never said a thing to me.  

From a psychoanalytic view, the two nights were like two separate dreams in which my Id was interrupted by my Super Ego- the first night the cops and the second night my mother.  In most circumstances, the Super Ego gets there before the Id does the deed.  Not admitting to a premature Id, I wonder what would have followed.

[rtirman-blog]

37   A Lost Semester

Perhaps the writing was on the wall- I was not to be a doctor.  However, I do not remember abandoning my medical aspirations at that time. I and two great friends, Tom Hannigan and Don Hazelton, decided to rent an apartment on Cedar Street about ten blocks south of the University and one block west of where Van Petten lived.  Before moving in, we had to have the place approved by the Prefect of Discipline’s (Black Mac’s) office.  Since undergraduates were not permitted to have their own kitchens, prior to the inspection, we took every book we could find and turned our kitchen into a library. Turning on the stove surely would have ignited all volumes of Will Durante’s “Civilization” while burning down the house with it.  When Dickey inspected the apartment, he stopped in the kitchen and said, “this looks like a kitchen”.  Our response was that it was a kitchen, but we turned it into our library and study room. Okay, Dickey said. I’ll approve your living quarters as long as you can promise me you will leave this room as a library. Great, we promised.  If memory serves me right, we had the library dismantled and the kitchen operative before Dickey got out of our driveway.

 Living together, by no means, was helpful to me academically.  Every night was party night, or wishing it was party night. Tom was probably the most dedicated.  He was a few years older than the rest of us.  He came to Notre Dame after serving time in the Military- the Navy, I think. He hailed from York, PA.  I looked up to him and valued his opinions.  He loved to ask me questions (he knew the answers to) about classical music, major league baseball, and motion pictures from the thirties and forties.  Each time I would give him the correct answer, he would sing praises to my knowledge.

 Don Hazelton, Hazer, was a mastermind in finding shot-cuts through life. He put more pins through phone cords than a seamstress put through seams.  Hazer was, without question, was the most resourceful.  In the future, he would become a corporate asset in getting things done.  He was from Midlothian, a suburb just south of Chicago.  He introduced me night clubbing on Chicago’s Madison Avenue, and making sure to save a few bucks to spend at the end of the night in Calumet.

 Finally, Jim was akin to a transient border.  We should have charged him rent.  However, he did manage to go home each night and sleep in his own bed.  Jim was enamored with Connie, the eldest daughter of the DeGraffs, the folks who lived below us and from whom we rented our apartmenTom had the hots for Connie, as well.  I wonder if that’s why we decided to live there…hmm.

 None of us had much money. We ate a ton of franks and beans. I made use of how the Dining Hall workers ate, and chanced getting caught by grabbing a white coat, eating lunch or dinner, throwing the white coat in the laundry basket, and then, leaving the Dining Hall.  That saved me a buck, or two.  But the most daring, money saving venture was when Tom, Hazer, and I went to the grocery store.  We would put some items in a shopping cart, while other items, like lunchmeat and cheese found their way under our jackets and sweaters.  This was very risky, but quite logical for three college students with infant-sized prefrontal cortices.  

 One Saturday morning, we were shopping for food at a Kroger. (This shopping venture was in the days of gaining green stamps for rewards that could be used to reduce the cost of a future visit…  The number of stamps you received was depended on the amount of your purchase).  Tom had control of the basket, while Hazer and I, walking behind him, were weighted down by cheese and lunchmeats.  As Tom was emptying the basket, a package of bacon fell from inside his jacket onto the moving belt.  The checkout lady looked at the bacon, then looked at Tom.  As Tom looked back at her, he asked, “Do I get green stamps on that bacon?”

 We only had Tom’s word as to what happened next…Hazer and I scooted out of that store, laden with muenster and bologna.  We ran to the get-away car, parked down the block, with Van Petten, aiding and abetting, at the wheel.  It seemed like we waited quite a long time for Tom. Naturally, we were prepared to quietly take off if the police showed up.  Much to our surprise, and joy, Tom showed up with the groceries.  Somehow, he managed to talk his way through that situation, coming out of that store smelling like a rose. We never went back to that Kroger. I’m certain, Tom thought about changing his major to pre-law. Oh, Green stamps did not come with the bacon.

 I honestly cannot remember the courses in which I was enrolled.  All I can come up with is how lonely and misdirected I was feeling. For reasons beyond my comprehension, I spent time in the Student Center reading “The Caine Mutiny”.   I wasn’t an avid reader, but occasionally, I’d go on a reading binge.  I read Huck Finn a few times in college.  The story made me laugh and gave me goose bumps. Huck was a good human being.  Why I read the Caine Mutiny is a mystery to me, but when I finished the book, I knew it was time to leave school and join the Navy.  I was convinced going into the Navy would take care of my loneliness and give me time to figure myself out.

 After a conversation with Dean Baldinger, and upon his recommendation, I went for counseling at a counseling service run by the College of Education.  Dr. Baldinger promised that if after seeing a counselor and still wanted to leave school, I would be permitted to return if, in the future, I decided to continue at Notre Dame.  That was a wonderful gift to me- if I left the school to join the Navy, I could always return.

 The counselor I went to see had his office under the Golden Dome.  We didn’t do much talking.  He had me take an interest test, to see in what kind of work I’d really be interested. It came out that I would be interested in medicine and helping others.

I don’t think the counselor’s job was to keep me at school.  I really think he was keeping information on students who withdraw from the University. No matter, I packed my bag with all my belongings, said farewell to my buddies, and soon was on the train to New York.  My plan was to go directly to the Naval Recruiting Offices on Whitehall Street and then go home to Freeport.  I planned to stay at home until I started my stint in the Navy. After leaving the train, I put my belongings in a locker, then made my way downtown to Whitehall Street.

 I talked with two recruiters who were enthusiastic about me wanting to join the Navy.  However, both of them agreed that the Navy would love to have me, but recommended that I return to Notre Dame, finish my degree, return to the Whitehall, and the Navy would absolutely have me enlist in Officer’s Training School.  I can’t say I was happy about being turned down.  I immediately went to the Coast Guard Recruiting Office and arranged to be enrolled the following week.  If I passed the physical, they would enlist me.  My Uncle Walter was in the Coast Guard during WWII.  Every time I got to see him he was in a sailor’s uniform- the Coast Guard was like the Navy.  I agreed to return to the recruiting office the following Tuesday for a physical and swearing in.

 After that, I went back to Penn Station, picked up my belongings, and took the Long Island Railroad back home to Freeport.  No one, at home, knew anything about me quitting college.  As I walked in the door, I could see the light was on in the kitchen. I yelled hello as I walked through the dining room into the kitchen.  My mother was at the stove.  She looked at me casually and said, “well hello, what are you doing here? I told her I left school and was going into the Coast Guard.  I told her about how lonely I was feeling, wanting to join the Navy, and my visit to Whitehall Street.   She agreed with the Navy-  I was well on my way in completing college, why not finish and then go into the service.

 My brother, Al, had a different take on my actions- “Lonely?  You were lonely?  You’ll find out about lonely when you’re stationed for six months in a one-man igloo above the Arctic Circle.  You’re an idiot! You’ve got your brains up your ass!  Go back to school!  His tirade hit home. He was absolutely right.  By the end of that week, I had decided not to return to Whitehall Street. Instead, I returned to the Good Humor Corporation. The trucks hit the streets April 1st.  So I would be able to start working immediately.

 When I went out to Good Humor, John Gormly, the supervisor for the northern half of Nassau County, offered me a route in Glen Head. I wanted to know why he would think I would want that, since I had a pretty lucrative route in Merrick.  He agreed Merrick was a good route.  However, to suck more money out of that town, they were breaking my route up into three separate routes.  Although that would appear to be a big ego booster, it wasn’t, as it sounds, an even swap. Merrick was growing by leaps and bounds.  So, I made the move to Glen Head.  At some point, Al became a Good Humor Man, and he had a route in Glen Cove, the town next to Glen Head.  The other thing- I may have trained him.  Anyway, it was kind of neat to meet with him at the Greenvale Diner before starting our routes.  Im certain it was at these diners on Long Island that I learned to order my eggs “over-light”. It seems like everywhere else in the States it’s “over-easy”.

[rtirman-blog]

36.   A Notre Dame Junior

I forgot to tell you about being chosen by St. Ed’s Hall to represent them in the Annual Tennis Tournament which was held before the end of the school year.  Also, I think it is important to mention,  I was feeling more and more a part of Notre Dame, i.e., my existence, and what I did, made a difference in the school. First an off-campus student, to a St. Edwards resident student, to a representative of St. Ed’s.

 So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to return to my tennis match, as the St. Ed’s representative. My opponent was none other than Jim Van Petten, the off-campus tennis representative. As I wrote about earlier, Jim was a legend at Fenwick High School in Oak Park, Illinois and an emerging Notre Dame Legend.  As for me, although not perfect, I was able to get the ball over the net. That match was a joke. Every shot I took was returned with sky high lobs.  Every time I got a chance to slam the ball onto his side of the net, back it came like a Ted Williams home run.  This would continue until I made the mistakes of slamming the ball into the net, hitting the ball out of bounds, or missing the ball with my most powerful swing. I’m sure, by now, you have guess the result- 6-0, 6-0!   Jim is, even today, one of my best friends on earth. But we have never played tennis since then.

 Now onto Dillon Hall and my junior year. My room, 104, was in the front of the building with a lot of pedestrian traffic right out the window.  If there was a girl on campus, I would have spotted her in a second. Going to an all-male school may not have been smart.  By my junior year, I had a daily ache in my stomach, hoping to see a girl sometime in the day.  My roommate, Roy Martinello, was in no better shape.  Academically, I was signed up for 15 credit hours- Organic Chemistry and Lab, Economics, Medical Ethics, Advanced Composition, and Freehand Drawing.  My schedule may seem light, but I did not take to Organic, especially the lab. I can’t honestly tell you anything about Medical Ethics, but I do remember Organic.  First of all, my professor, Dr. Emil Hoffman, was considered the hardest prof in the College of Science, and maybe the entire University.  I took a minimum of six pages of notes at each of his lectures.  Worse than Organic lectures was Organic Lab.  Like every chemistry laboratory, we would go through a safety lab which required a report. This was a repeated procedure for all my chemistry labs in high school and college.  The first one I ever did seemed like a waste of my time, as did every other safety lab and report.

 The second session of Organic Lab was on “recrystallization”.   Each student was given a compound which we were to dissolve, recrystallize, and identify. We each had a different compound to find a solvent which would dissolve it, then boil it off to recrystallize it, and then identify it…or something of that nature.  About midway through the third session of the recrystallization exercise, I had finally found the solvent, recrystallized the compound, poured it the through litmus paper, and captured a large recrystallized amount of the original compound.  I must tell you, there was also a large amount of the compound all over my new white lab coat, which now appeared to have been in the midst of an exploding rainbow. Mostly, it was yellow, the color of my compound.  But there were splotches of red, orange, green, blue, indigo and violet.  All in all, it was three boring weeks of trying to dissolve bits of my compound in every acid and base known to mankind.  You would think of all the explosive things that could happen in an organic lab, something exciting would happen…but no, it was a bore. However, we did have one student start an acetone fire, which was put out quickly.  Wow! One little fire in nine hours in the lab.

 I had my compound drying out on fresh litmus paper.  I would then calculate the percent of yield, and then turn it in to my lab instructor to measure percent and purity of yield.  As my recrystallized compound lay out on my lab table drying, my lab instructor was returning our graded safety lab reports from our first lab session. My report was fairly extensive, perhaps four or five pages inserted in a binder.  Instead of placing my report gently on the lab table, he held it about a foot or two above the table and let it drop flat.  I screamed, “Noooooo!” as the wind created on the table top lifted and flipped over the litmus paper with my crystallized compound.  Why did you do that? It took me three weeks to recrystallize it!  He told me to scrape it up, and turn in whatever I was able to save.  After my compound was returned to me, I did get permission to continue, with the added comment that my yield was small and had lots of impurities.  Any enthusiasm I had for that lab, organic, and, for that matter, chemistry, was gone.

 My job turned out to be very helpful to me.  One day while working at the soda counter, I looked up to the person waiting to order, and to my surprise, I was facing Eric Smitner, my high school Latin teacher. He had taken a position at St. Mary’s College.  Even though in high school it took me three years of Latin to get credit for two years, he was one of my favorite teachers at Freeport High.  He was genuinely glad to see me, and praised my accomplishments of which he always knew I was capable.  That brief interaction, was a needed shot in the arm.  I was feeling proud.

 Earlier, I told you about my boss, Jim McCaraghy (“the g is silent like p in swimming”). He was the person who played poker with Knute Rockne, every week.  Jim sang my praises to the powers that be, resulting in a dining hall job with twice the hours. Early each evening, I would go down to the basement of the Dining Hall, pick up a white jacket, and got on line to pick up my supper and eat for free.  Financially, that was very helpful.

 The dining hall was somewhat like the dining hall at Hogwarts, where Harry Potter learned the skills of wizardry.  Just like at Hogwarts, at the end of the long dining hall was an elevated area for a table of the “higher ups” overlooking the entire dining hall.  Yes, the priests ate at that table.  One day, while eating my supper, there was heard across the dining hall, “THERE IS NO GOD!”. Was that booming voice from the Heavens? Or from an amplifier?  You bet those priests were looking hard to see who yelled that out.  Suddenly, from somewhere in that hall came this, “YOU ARE WRONG, THERE ARE MANY GODS!”  Much to the chagrin of the clergy, the place went up in hysterics. The culprits were never found.

 My job, in the dining hall, was to clear off the tables and then help wash the dishes. I was assigned to wash the dirty glasses by dipping them into water, place them face down on spinning brushes, and then place them in a tray to be sanitized by our big washers. At my station, I had a great view of a town girl who worked in the kitchen, as well.  Plenty of times, I’d be looking at her, rather than paying attention to my work.  While looking at her, I would either miss the spinning brushes or hit them awkwardly. One time, I even broke a glass. Luckily, I was not hurt.

 Fast forward to my advanced composition class and another legend- John Ryan.   Although I am uncertain, Mr. Ryan could have been a member of the poker playing Notre Dame greats!  Nonetheless, I knew I had the absolute best English teacher in the University.  The class met T-R-S at 11:30 A.M.  On Saturdays on which there was a home football game, we met at 8:30 A.M.  Since on those Saturdays the campus was heaving with family members, girlfriends, etc., our class was open for guests to attend. About a week before one of those home game Saturdays, Mr. Ryan assigned us to write am 800- word definition. What happened to me on this assignment never happened to me before nor any time after. The greatest composition professor in Notre Dame’s history, with a classroom filled with students and parents, read an outstanding paper that defined “A Gawky Glasswasher”.

The place was in hysterics as Mr. Ryan read my paper.  Actually, much of it was an explanation of the definition with which I finally ended. It went something like this:  “A gawky glasswasher is a dishwasher whose job it is to put dirty glasses on spinning brushes in order to get them clean, yet keeps dirty glasses dirty by staring at pretty girl workers thus missing the spinning brushes…”  When he finished reading the paper, I received a standing ovation, from students and parents. This was a special event for a someone like me whose ego needed stroking…my first, and last, A-plus English Composition paper.  It probably helped raise my final grade to an 85...a solid C!

I got that same grade in Econ and Freehand Drawing.  Organic and Medical Ethics, 70 and 72, respectively.  In all my pre-med studies, the only science in which I got a halfway decent grade was an 84 in physics, in my sophomore year.  Oh, I did get that 97 in inorganic after failing it the semester before. The challenge of college, for me, was staying and moving forward in pre-med, despite knowing I’d have a zero chance of getting into med-school.

 Do you remember back in high school when I lost my cool and kicked the basketball high above the gym hitting a window.  Well, that me showed up while I was cleaning tables in the dining hall.  I was adept at picking up 5 glasses at a time on each hand. As I was doing that, a couple of glasses slipped out of my hand and rolled across the table…nothing broke.   A supervisor, who was standing close by, suggested that I just pick up two or three glasses at a time.  I took offense, and I told him he could just go f--- himself!  His name was Ziggy, and he was in charge of the dining hall.  I got the boot on the spot!

 Within a few days, I was selling women’s shoes in the downtown store of J.C. Penney.  I had to agree to work through the Christmas holiday, their busiest shopping time of the year. Since the Spring semester started about 10 days into January, I figured I could work there over Christmas followed by a ten-day vacation back home.  I clocked a lot of hours at Penney’s.  Part of the time, they had me working in the boy’s clothing department. I actually did okay as a salesman.

I left for home before the new year with plans to rest.  As soon as I boarded the train, I felt sick.  I ended up spending my entire time off sick in bed with the flu. Then back on the train to face the Spring semester of my junior year.

[rtirman-blog]

35   Productive Work...                          A Friendly Man

So far, my performance as a student was from average to below average.  Generally, I was doing enough to graduate, but probably not well enough to get into medical school. I don’t think I thought to do anything else in life, but to be a doctor.  The important thing now was that I was ready to be a junior.  I had picked out room 104 in Dillon Hall, the larger of the two junior halls.  Father Bristol, one of the most famous priests on campus, was the rector of the Hall.  I was excited about living there after the summer break.

 As soon as I finished my last exam, I was on the train headed for home.  I was looking forward to being with Sally, again.  The moment I dragged my belongings into the house, I called my brother Mickey to see if he would ride me over to Levittown for me to surprise her.  Luckily, he was available at that moment.  He picked me up, and off to Levittown we went.  When we got to her house, Mickey waited in the car while I went up to the door. Her mother opened the door, said a friendly hello, and told me Sally was not at home. Just as she said that a car pulled up with some guy and Sally in it.  I went over to greet her.  I was met with a question, “Didn’t I get her letter?”  She had sent me a “Dear John” letter that got to South Bend after I had left for home.  Quickly, I said good-bye, got back into Mickey’s car, and off we went.  I cried all the way home… an unforgettable, painful moment in my life.

 That night, I talked with Sally over the phone. I cannot remember who made the call. She apologized for not contacting me earlier, so the hurt and embarrassment of that moment could have been avoided.  In that telephone conversation, she managed to tell me how disappointed she was with me on her birthday.  I don’t know what else she said to me. But I do remember one of my retorts- ”that was no broomstick I was carrying !”

Broomstick? Was that the best phallic lookalike I could think of?  Why not a baseball bat, a Louisville Slugger, or a 20-pound sausage link? Anyway, none of what I said helped. Sally and I were history. It happened, and there was no changing it. The pain I felt was an emptiness and longing, and it persisted. There was no thought in my mind of finding someone new.

 Now, it was time to look for a job for the summer.  As horrible as I felt, I still needed to make some bucks to pay for school. There was no way I wanted to be a lifeguard again, especially in Levittown. The money wasn’t great, and I would crumble if I ran into Sally.  I can’t remember how I got the idea to apply to become an ice cream salesman. Within that first week home, I was out in N. Lindenhurst, Long Island, interviewing to be a Good Humor Man.  The sales manager for the southern half of Nassau County, Bill McCormick, after reading my application and talking with me, told me to come the morning of the following day to be oriented to the job.

 Good Humor was the crème-de-la-crème of ice creams sold on the streets. The Good Humor Man was quite spiffy in his white pants, white jacket, white captain’s hat, and a shoulder-waist belt with a coin changer. An icon, revered by just about every kid in existence, especially, when the ice cream truck was near enough to see and to hear its mouth-watering chimes.  My guess is that if there were 100 silent kids at a prayer meeting, at the sound of those bells, there would be nothing God could do to stop them from scurrying to get money…the prayer meeting would wait. Even God would probably take “time out for a Sundae.”

 The next morning, Bill McCormick introduced me to Bill Frank, one of the most successful Good Humor men on Long Island.  His route was Massapequa. My orientation was to watch and to listen to Bill.  We had a long day together, but it was the best education I could have had.  One of the most useful things he said to me was that I am making money every time I reach into the freezer of the truck, pull out some ice cream, and exchange it for money.  So, the object was to shorten the time between money making.  Ideally, the Good Humor Man moves his truck quickly to spots on the route where people are waiting with their money.  This doesn’t happen on its own. The truck must be there every day about the same time, and the Good Humor truck must move swiftly.  After a day or two of that, the customers run for their money and run for the place where the truck stops.  That was what I basically experienced with Bill.  On his route, everyone knew him, and everyone was outside with their money when he got there.

 Another important behavior he taught me was to never look rushed…to anyone, or to rush anyone. Yes, shortening the time between sales is important, but being courteous and taking time with folks makes for steady customers and top sales.  Sometimes I’ve been in Subway or Q-Doba and feel so rushed in making my choices that I want to scream at them, SLOW DOWN- GIVE ME A CHANCE TO THINK!  Once you’ve made a sale, and the customer has turned away, that’s the time to fly back into the truck and get a move on!

 To my good fortune, the presence of another ice cream vendor, Howdy-Doody, gave Bill an opportunity to have me experience a masterful stunt.  The Howdy-Doody truck went down a cul-de-sac.  Bill followed.  Right before the end of the cul-de-sac, Bill turned the Good Humor truck so it was crossways on the street, thus trapping the Howdy-Doody truck at the end of the cul-de-sac.  Bill then began to ring our truck’s bells.  People came out of their homes to buy ice cream from Good Humor, while the Howdy-Doody Man had to wait and watch. In effect, Bill was telling him to get the h--- out of this neighborhood.

 By the next day, believe it or not, I was driving to my route, Merrick, Long Island.  Yes, only one day of training, and I was all set. Before beginning, I stopped at the Merrick Diner for coffee, eggs over light, bacon, and hash browns. Actually, that became part of my morning routine- arrive at Good Humor, in North Lindenhurst, around 9:30, order and load my truck with needed ice cream and ices, drive to Merrick via Sunrise Highway, stop at the Diner, eat breakfast, and begin ringing the bells about 11:30.  I had the entire route typed out- time estimates regarding where and when to start, which streets on which to sell our goods, where to turn, etc. I had instructions for the entire route from 11:30 in the morning to 9:30 at night.  I learned from Bill Frank that your sales after 6 P.M. will normally double your sales before 6 P.M.  So, if you expect to bring in a yard ($100), you should have sold around $35 worth before 6.

On that first day, there I was spiffed up in my white Good Humor Man uniform ready to be a success. The route began in a new home addition on the south side of Merrick.  When I reached the intersection where I was to start, there were 6 other ice cream trucks within view-Bungalow Bar, Howdy Doody, Robin Hood, Carvel, and a couple of independents.  How confusing for the people that lived there! I got to my business, and as I did, I waved to each ice cream salesman I passed.  I rang the bells as loud as I could.  There were four of them on a bar attached to the outside, top of the front windshield frame.  A rope went from the bar through a hole in the frame so I could ring them by pulling on the rope.  I got real good at ringing those bells.

My first day, I brought back to the barn about $90.  After a few weeks, it was rare if I didn’t bring in a yard.  Also, after a few weeks, it was rare to see another ice cream truck on my route.  By being consistent, that is, by showing up every day at nearly the same time, I made myself reliable.  A yard, $100, may not seem like a lot today, but then, it was quite a sum.  Good Humors (ice cream bars) cost 15 cents. So, it would take selling 667 of them to make that yard.  It was a great job.  Even though I was working 7 days most weeks, the money was great.  My weekly checks were around $250.  In one month, I could make enough money to pay tuition for the coming academic year.

 Merrick was my town!  I prided myself in learning the names of the kids.  throughout the town, I could say hello by name to many of them, as well as many of their parents.  On July 4th, other Good Humor drivers would sell their wares at the Merrick parade, but not me. I was in the parade as one of town’s own. I was a good Good Humor Man, and I knew it. However, I wonder if I was looked at as a man. Even though I had started to grow, I was not out of a youthful look. By this time, I might have looked about 16. I was probably seen as the Good Humor Boy.  

 Beside lingering thoughts of Sally, other things complicated my life.  I ate a lot of ice cream. all day long, I gave away a lot of ice cream, I bought a car, and I had not controlled my spending.  By the time I was ready to go back to school, I hadn’t saved enough. Since this was the first time I had myself in such financial shape, Daddy borrowed enough from the bank to take care of my first semester tuition and about three weeks of living expenses. I was to find a job, asap. I sold my car, and got a job, as a soda jerk, in the Notre Dame Dining Hall, right next to Dillon Hall.

[rtirman-blog]

34   Sophomore  Completed

A student’s life, as is true for life in general, is mostly filled with unmemorable moments. As mentioned previously, there is a relationship between the importance and vividness of experience and the recalling of experience. I suppose there is much more to tell which might evoke a different

 Right after I moved into St. Ed’s, my brother Al visited me. He was interested in what and how I was doing. Other than me getting into trouble, I actually was moving along pretty well.  I could even see the light of day regarding my physics grade.  So, as long as I worked hard in Physics, I was on my way to a very uncomplicated and successful semester.  Al lit up when I told him about my class, “Music of the Twentieth Century” with Father Hager.  That made me happy.  Al’s opinion meant a lot to me.  

Prior to my class with Father Hager, one type of music I of which I had never heard was a tone poem. When Father Hager carefully lowered the needle onto the record grooves of Richard Strauss’s “The Merry Pranks of Til Eulenspiegel”, I was enthralled!  What an expressive piece of music!  Did my father, or brother, know about Strauss? If so, why had I not heard it until that day.  

 Perhaps I have said this before, but when I was a kid, I favored Pepsi Cola over Coca Cola, Duz over Rinso, Swan over Life Boy, the Red Sox over the Yankees, etc., etc., etc., and finally, Beethoven over any composer living, dead, or yet to be born. Yes, I was biased by my father- and by my brother, Al.  Since Daddy liked Beethoven, I liked Beethoven because I loved my father, and because Al liked Beethoven, I liked Beethoven to avoid being labeled a horse’s ass. As you can see, those are two distinctly different, yet effective, ways to influence my preferences. Whereas Al, with all good intentions, would employ demeaning or brutal tactics to help me see the truth, Daddy would always revel in my own truths.  Actually. I seldom disagreed with Al. I looked up to him, and I recognized how smart he was and how much he cared about me.  But I had never heard of Richard Strauss.  This is a very telling point concerning me. My exploration of music, the arts in general, was quite passive. If Daddy or Al liked something, so did I.   It took me a long time before I felt confident enough to recommend to either of these mentors a good book or a piece of music. Daddy died in his mid-fifties.  I have questioned many times since then whether I could meet him on his intellectual plane.

 It was much later in my life that Al gave me a gift of confidence not many big brothers offer their siblings.  After a week-long visit, Al drove me to the airport for my flight home.  While driving, we got into a discussion about different kinds of jobs and whether jobs were sex-typed or whatever.  Al then told me that some jobs, such as airline stewardesses and secretaries are jobs that are for females.  He added, tjhat females are made genetically to do those things better than men.

 I thought to myself that was the dumbest thing I had ever heard coming out of his mouth. I said to him, “I don’t know how you can say that because our society socializes people to do work like that.

 I must have touched a hot button!  Al, in his Brooklynese, went to his go-to, and effective, I’ll-shut- you-down retort. He belted out, “You’re a goddamn horse’s ass!”

 For the next few minutes it got very quiet in the car.  I then said, “Hey, Al.”

“What?”, he said.

“You know, you may be right and I may be wrong, or you may be wrong and I may be right.  But there is one thing I know for sure.”

 What’s that? He asked.

 I waited a second, and then I said, “I ain’t no goddamn horse’s ass!

 He started to laugh. We laughed together. Then out of his mouth came this: “you know, you’re going to get on that plane, and I’m going to go back to my office. At work, I’ll be in a discussion with some of the other professors, secretaries, and staff and that topic will come up.  The next thing I know is that I’ll be giving your opinion as my own…I know I will.”

You do that?, I asked.

“I do that all the time. Every time you are here, I learn something else that I use as mine.”

 Up to that moment, taking ideas from my brother was a one-way street.  Up to that time, I lived my life thinking I didn’t have an original thought or opinion.  I loved Ted Williams, the Red Sox, the Celtics, Beethoven, Freud, and even, Elbows Anderson because my big brother was a fan to all.  The Marx Brothers, Army football, Humphrey Bogart, and a host of others could be added to the list.  

I tell you those things to provide the background to the choices I made in “Music of the Twentieth Century.  Father Hager required each student to write either one long critique on a piece of music in the Twentieth Century or two shorter papers. Since hearing Strauss’s tone poems, I was considering doing two short papers on Strauss’s works.  One paper on “Don Jaun”, and the other on “Der Rosenkavalier”, “Til Eulenspiegel”, or “Romeo and Juliet”.  Before I made a definite choice, my brother, Al came to visit me. He was really enthusiastic about what I was learning in Music of the Twentieth Century. It didn’t take him very long before he talked me into doing my first short paper on Sergei Prokofiev”s  “Alexander Nevsky”.  I would then be able to do my second paper on a Strauss work.  The most important part of this is I was to experience my brother’s method for writing a paper, and it was the first  time we wrote one together.

 One of Al’s most useful tools for writing is Roget’s Thesaurus- a dictionary of synonyms and antonyms. I learned to not be repetitive with a word, rather, use a synonym. This was a helpful thing to learn. Not only did I employ such an effective technique in my critique of “Alexander Nevsky”, but I continued to apply this approach in future manuscripts.  However, in Al’s enthusiasm, he injected throughout this paper his strong opinions and attitudes, which I did not have the background education to really understand. For example, in the midst of the paper, he abased Tchaikovsky in his comparison to Prokofiev.  If Father Hager would have questioned me on that, my dishonesty would have been exposed. Today, Al has a much different opinion of Tchaikovsky.  Anyway, I ended up getting an A on that paper. Although I do like Prokofiev’s music, I can’t remember anything about “Alexander Nevsky”.  

 Next, I had the bright idea to do a long paper, rather than a second short one.  I decided to write on Debussy’s opera “Pelieas et Melisande”. This time I did not have my brother’s assistance, so I looked to my father for help.  Daddy was the supreme authority on classical music.  As I listened to the opera, I wrote down every melody and sound I heard, what instruments were making those melodies and sounds, and finally, my notions of what things meant.  I sent everything I wrote to Daddy, and asked him to help me organize my paper.  A couple of weeks later, I received a completed, 3000 word, essay on Prokofiev’s “Palieas et Melisande”  Along with the paper, Daddy wrote me a short letter- “Richie, Don’t ever do this to me, again! “

 Before turning the paper in, I went through it, changing several expensive words to nickel and dime words.  I also made sure I understood everything that was in that paper.   Some of the writing seemed familiar, but ironically, I didn’t recognize my many contributions to its final form.

 Spring Break showed up between those two papers.  I was looking forward to going home and being with Sally.  She was to turn 16 sometime in early April, and I was to take her to Madison Square Garden to see the circus.  Two foreboding moments on that trip back home.   The seats I could afford at the Garden were insufficient to please Sally.  We were so high up that we were at that same height as the trapeze artists.  This was an unforgettable mistake, which lingered throughout our relationship.  The seats that would have made her happy probably would have cost 15 to 20 dollars more per seat, and I didn’t have the money.  She never said a word about it that night. I discovered later, my gift was considered “not good enough”.

The second foreboding moment was clearer in its message.  I simply remember her at a party flirting with a few guys I didn’t really know well.  They all were enjoying themselves while I watched in fear.  Nothing happened, except I discovered how jealous I could be. I was totally relieved when we left…I didn’t say a word to her.

Our time together was somewhat limited because her school was not on their Easter break.  So, we saw each other just about every school night for a few hours.  When I left for school, she did not travel to the city with us.    

 Back at school I went to work on “Pelieas et Melisande,” and to ask my father to help me. The most difficult moment “Music of the Twentieth Century” was at the end of the course I would have to take a final which required me to write without a Thesaurus, without a The-Al, and without The Daddy.  My writing would ex[pose me!   I was required to write several short answer questions identifying composers and their  music. Then came the essay on Jacques Ibert’s ”Divertissement”.  I wrote about what I saw in my head while listening…two New York City bums with bolo hats, hankies sticking out of their left shoulder pockets, tulips in their hands, and doing the minuet.  I got an A on the exam, and an A in the course.  

[rtirman-blog]

33          Back to ND and a Near                 Fatal Mistake

When it was time to return to Notre Dame, Mother, Joe, Sally, and I, again, made the trip together. Only, instead of Sally and me being in the back seat with her secretly nursing me as my head was buried under her blouse, I was confidently driving the car.  Sally was in the front with me. I look at all that as a sign of personal growth.

On this trip, I actually participated in conversation.  I really don’t know whether I embarrassed Sally when we drove to Penn Station in the summer.  I suppose, I am simply exposing self judgement, i.e.  riding all the way to New York with my head under Sally’s blouse while kissing her breasts was a sign of an insecure baby. But it sure beats driving!

Suddenly, “Whoa, Richard! You Are Going into Brooklyn! “    I swerved across multiple lanes of traffic to keep us headed for Manhattan.  Luckily, we did not crash, and we, eventually, made it safely to Penn Station. After saying our good-byes on the station platform, I was soon settled in my seat, headed west for school.  As I should have known, over the holiday, I did absolutely no studying for my finals. My books traveled with me, but I never opened them. Beside weighing me down, I felt guilty for not studying.

 That semester, I squeezed out a passing grade in Embryology, pulled a saving all-nighter for my Sociology exam, and made it through German, Logic, and Physics with halfway decent grades.  I was feeling fairly good because I was moving forward. One more semester and I’ll be a junior.  The coming Spring Semester looked interesting- Chemistry (Qualitative Analysis), Physics, German, Intro to Psychology, and Music of the Twentieth Century.

 At the start of the semester, I was feeling pretty confident.  So far, Qualitative Analysis was the best chemistry class I had ever taken, and I was sailing through all my courses. However, leave it to me to complicate my existence.  When I finished working on a physics exam, which we faced every other week, I did something really stupid. The physics’ students were seated in every other seat.  Between our seats, the chemistry students were taking one of their exams.

We were in 127 Nieuwland Science Hall, a large, inclined, lecture hall accommodating about one-hundred fifty students. I was seated in the first row, flying through my exam.  Just as I finished, the chemistry student on my right very quietly asked if I would help him with a problem on his exam.  I took my scratch paper and wrote out the problem he was pointing to on his exam. As I was ready to show him his completed question, out of his mouth he whispered “WATCH OUT!”.  His fear of getting caught by the proctor, who was way up in the back of the room, his whisper was decibels higher  than a shout, and heard by everyone.  All eyes were upon us.  I quickly put my scratch paper under my exam. The proctor came directly down the aisle, and stood in front of me.  He picked up all my papers, and thumbed through them.  He found my scratch paper with the chemistry problem clearly worked out.  He then asked me, while pointing to the chemistry problem, what’s this?  I told him I had just finished my test, and I happened to see the other kid’s exam. I saw the problem, and was curious to see if I could still do it. He looked at both of us, told us to put our exams and papers on the desk, and leave.  

 That was on a Friday. By the following Monday, I was sitting in an office, under the Golden Dome, talking with the Prefect of Discipline, Father McCarragher, “affectionately” known to the student body as “Black Mac”.   He let me know that even though I was trying to help another student, I was considered just as guilty as that other student.  He also told me I was given a zero on my exam and, at the completion of the course, ten percent of my final grade will be deducted. Also, Father Mac told me he made the decision to bring me on to campus, as the University would like to know more about me.  I was to meet with Father Dean, Rector of St. Edwards Hall.

 I fully agreed I deserved punishment.  However, I quietly thought the punishment was more hurtful than it needed to be.  For sure, I intended to never repeat that offense, and having my grade lowered so drastically, misrepresents the knowledge I had gained, ergo, misrepresenting my abilities.  Wasn’t pulling me on campus enough? Couldn’t they have simply taken 10% off my exam grade, and put a note about the incident on my transcript?  Better yet, just lower my final grade one grade lower. However, the long and short of it was, I screwed up, and I needed to face whatever my professor and Father Mac saw fit.

 Later that day, I met with Father Dean, who didn’t mention a thing about my faux pas.  In a soft spoken way, he told me about St. Ed’s Hall, assigned me to a room, and went over some of the Hall rules.  We had a 10 P.M. curfew, lights out at 11 P.M., and a requirement, at least twice per week, to check-in between 6 and 7 A.M., fully dressed, at the first floor entrance to the Hall.  As it was for all students living on campus, the early morning check-in was to encourage me to attend Mass.  I asked Father Dean if I was really required to do the morning check, since I was not a Catholic, I was Episcopalian.  Yes, I was expected to participate in the morning check.  Father Dean told me once I have checked in, I could go up to my room and go back to sleep if I prefer. But he did suggest, I go to the Dining Hall or the Huddle, grab a cup of coffee, and start off those days early.  I have to say, I liked Father Dean!

I was assigned to a triple. My two roommates were two Irish Catholics, Bill Holman and Bill (sometimes Will) Johnson.  They were good friends who fought like brothers. I was fortunate, they were superb roommates.  Thy helped me settle in and feel very welcome.

 Getting in trouble at Notre Dame, and being housed in St. Ed’s, was tantamount to placing an innocent lad into a den of thieves.  Although, I am sure they did, I don’t recall Holman and Johnson ever studying, consistently. I do remember being escorted to a soda machine, that continued to pour out your drink selection if you pulled the plug out of the wall.  When we reached the machine there was a line of guys waiting, with cups to fill.  The next thing I learned from my hall mates was how to make a free telephone call. There was no such thing as a cell phone, and telephone calls were ten cents for a local call.  By piercing the telephone wire with a safety pin, you could get a dial tone by tapping the safety pin on the metal of the coin return.  The telephone wires in St. Ed’s looked like Swiss cheese. I’m certain, these kind of shenanigans could be found all over the country. AT&T got smart. They put flexible metal coverings on every public telephone wire in existence.  Our criminal behavior culminated with three or four of us, at midnight, on the roof top at the south end of Nieuwland Science Hall. We were black faced, wearing dark, navy, wool hats, and dark sweaters and pants.  There were faculty offices there, as well as exams.  It was like a Navy Seal raid on the Chemistry Department! Abort! Abort!  The windows to the faculty offices were locked. We didn’t know how to open them without breaking a window. I guess we would have to study, or do what some students would do- make cliff notes.  One of my closest buddies, whose initials are, Don Hazelton, would spend hours on cliff notes.  Before going to his exam, he would put the cliff notes in his underwear.  He figured if he got stuck, he could ask to go to the bathroom.  Even if he was escorted to the john, he would be able to be alone in a stall.  He could look at his notes, and then, flush them down the toilet.  An interesting thing is that he never had to use the bathroom scheme.  He spent so much time putting his cliff notes together, he inadvertently learned the material. It was partly responsible for making him a pretty good student.

Perhaps the best result of me being pulled on campus, I was getting the entire college experience. I was a full-fledged Notre Dame student, who lived on campus. I learned so many things about the halls, the priests, the students, and the traditions of the school. In short, I was much more a part of the University.

[rtirman-blog]

32  Christmas Vacation 1955

This is a frustrating moment, as I look back, I can think of only a few things that standout.  I cannot put that Christmas holiday in any kind of order.  Although I do not remember my travels home on the train, for certain, I had a roomette in a Pullman Car and Sally was on my mind. Not remembering for sure, may speak to the fact I took that ride so many times, it would take an event so vivid to keep that memory alive.  Perhaps that’s why I remember the train ride with Ella Fitzgerald.  I’m sure I made it home, and I’m sure I called Sally and arranged to see her as soon as possible.  But that is logical guesswork.  However, several things definitely happened.  

One evening, I took Sally to a Christmas party.  She had bought a very pretty, green, dress to wear. Somehow she tore the dress at her waist line.  This would definitely put a nix on the party.  That wouldn’t have bothered me, just as long as the two of us were together. I would have been happy with just watching television together. Sally told my mother about tearing her dress.  Aha! This was a job for Supermom!  Nobody was adept as my mother with a Singer Sewing Machine. To fix it, my mother made a second tear on the other side of the dress. Now the dress had two (@3”) vertical openings, or slits on each side of the dress at the waist line.  Using Sally as a model, she closed the slits so the dress fit snuggly and comfortably around Sally’s waist.  Looking at Sally’s dress, you would have thought she bought it that way- it looked better than the original.  I think my mother called the finished product darts.  Sally was so very happy with Mother, and Mother was mothering a girl- her dream come true.  It made me feel really good that the two of them liked each other.

We went to the party and were having a pretty good time.  Sally was a hit.  I knew she probably was younger than everyone there.  Perhaps my very young looks saved me from comments about “robbing the cradle. Sally and I looked “right” together. One thing that happened at the party was I had a pang of jealousy.  Sally was having a good time.  I didn’t have her by my side the whole evening.  She was flirtatious with a guy who I did not like. I saw them give each other a quick, fun kiss that I didn’t think was fun at all.  It’s not that I had never felt jealousy before, but never over a girl, and therefore, never over Sally.  I did not like how I was feeling or what fears passed through my mind. I couldn’t wait to leave.

Sally had permission to stay with us overnight.  There was quite a crowd of Mother and Joe’s friends, as well as a few relatives.  As the night came to an end, and with all the commotion, Sally and I were quietly snuggled up in my bed. I couldn’t believe I would get to sleep with her. Suddenly, my door opened, and Joe was standing there saying no, no.  Sally, we have a separate room for you.  She slept in Al’s old room.  Thank you, Joe.

On another evening, Sally and I were alone in her living room, making out on the couch.  I was in seventh heaven, snuggly lying there, kissing and kissing her.  I was in love with every inch   of her.  Out of her mouth I heard “uh huh, yes”.  Suddenly she turned her body so that I was between her legs (the position of missionaries), She grabbed me around my rear end, and pulled me so our genitals were pressing against one another.  Well almost, we did have on our clothes.  But that did not seem to bother either of us (although I did not know this term at that time, we were “dry-humping”). I was so much in love with her, and I was overwhelmed by her bringing me in so close. I then began to feel like I was going to have an orgasm (also, a word not in my vocabulary, at that time).  She began to mumble, and pulled me in harder.  I know this doesn’t happen that often, but I am certain we climaxed at the exact same time. She, then, held my head up so that she could look at me.  She kissed and kissed me all over my face. Her face seemed softly content, happy, and loving…to this day, it is still visible to me.

That moment had to be the culmination of all the physical intimacy of our time together…our playfulness in the pool at our first meeting, holding hands and kissing on the walk we took at the Longo party, and our learning in the shadows of the Wolcott pool, I consider as moments of intimacy helping us to move closer and closer.   Every moment was shared with an unspoken trust in each other.  

Abruptly, my warm feelings and thoughts were thwarted by a familiar wetness in my pants.  I had “shot-my-wad” with my pants on.  The front of my charcoal-grey wool pants was sopped with semen.  If I would have been wearing my khakis, I would have to have yelled, “Shit, I got cum all over my pants”.  But those charcoal-grey, woolen pants absorbed the semen without showing stains. So I could actually not mention what happened.  But I also thought perhaps their might be an odor.  She was right there with me in the middle of the action.  So, if there was an odor, we both could easily have habituated on it. The other thought was that semen really doesn’t have an odor, at all.

Sally’s mother came walking in the door.  I tried not avoid her seeing the front of my pants, or to get too close to her lest there truly is an emanation from love’s deposit.  She was kind of dolled up, and had on rather strong perfume.  That was “the luck of the Irish” (at the time, I thought I had but a trace of Irish; recently, Ancestry.com revealed to me, I am one-fifth Irish).  If there was an order, she didn’t seem to be aware.  I thought, wow! perhaps semen actually doesn’t have an odor.  After, giving Sally a hug and kiss goodbye, I said good night, and traveled back home.

All during the ride home, I relished the thought of Sally and me being so intimate to be able to share ourselves, as we did.  I know we were young, but I had thoughts of someday marrying her. As I pulled into our driveway, at our house in Freeport, my brother, Mickey was pulling up in the driveway at the same time.   He asked, “how’s it going”?  I said, “okay”. He got close enough, to give me his usual jab on my arm.

“Hold on,” he yelled, “I SMELL FUCK!”.  He took a rubber out of his wallet, and handed it to me.  Hmm…I guess semen has an odor, after all.

[rtirman-blog]

31   The Summer’s End - Back to                    Notre Dame

The rest of that summer, Sally and I were together whenever I was not at the pool.  It was not as though we couldn’t live without one another, and I can’t speak for her, but we liked being together.  My time to return to school was quickly approaching, and I didn’t want this to be viewed as a “summer romance.”   I did not relish the thought of leaving her, but I also knew my education was important.  So I never gave serious thought to doing anything else but returning to South Bend.

 One of the things Sally shared with me that summer was her religious affiliation.  She was Jewish.  Not only that, she was the first Jewish girl in Nassau County to celebrate her bat mitzvah, which, in Judaism marks an age of maturity when a child becomes more responsible and accountable for her own actions.  Actually, I think she was the first girl to do that in the whole State of New York.  In my mind, her religious history bonded us. I did share with her everything I knew about my family.  We were perfect for each other.

 The day I left to go back to school was harder to go through than a funeral of a loved one…even though I had yet to really lose a loved one.  When I was eight years old, Mom, my grandmother died after years of battling breast cancer. The only part of her death, I can recall, was her funeral.  The funeral parlor was on the north side of Church Avenue close to Rogers Avenue.  I remember very little.  Mom was in the coffin, and people walked over to her, looked at her, and sometimes bowed their heads in prayer.  Uncle Wally came over to me, and asked me to come with him to see mom. When we got to the coffin, I looked at mom. I didn’t know what else to do. Wally then told me he would give me a dollar if I would give mom a kiss. At that age, I was an indiscriminant sellout- I gave mom a kiss.  In truth, I probably would have done that without being offered a reward.

 My reaction to Mom’s death, and funeral, was probably forged by my age and by my history with Mom.  At age eight, I did not really understand how Mom’s death impacted others- Pop, Daddy, Mother, Wally and Bobby, Al and Mickey, et al.  I doubt I gave any of that a thought.  My history with Mom wasn’t strong.  I knew she was my grandmother, but I cannot remember doing anything with her.  Sadly, all I can remember was her in a wheelchair at Wally and Harriet’s apartment on Montague St., in Brooklyn.  So when she died, I did not cry; nor did I have any special feeling.

It’s somewhat weird to me, but even when Granny died, I was void of feeling.  I’ve mentioned Granny, Mother’s mother, several times.  She was closer to the storybook grandma than Mom. But when granny died, I was an adult, and I hadn’t seen her for a pretty long while; long enough to have healed over missing her.  Her funeral services were conducted in a small church in Rhinebeck, on the Hudson River, about 100 miles north of New York City.  I get closer to Granny almost every time I look at my arthritic hands.   I can make them look exactly like her crippled hands.  Then lots of memories of her come to mind.  I can’t do that with mom

So the day I left to go back to school was pretty sad. Mother and Joe (her husband) sat up front. Sally and I were in the back seat. Knowing I was to leave her was worse than anything I could imagine. It would have been easier to die holding one another, than to have to leave her.  But there we were, on the platform, hugging good bye.  I thought I was going to bawl, but I didn’t. I know I had tears in my eyes. Sally did, too.  Our romance was not over.  Now, it was a long distance relationship- she had a boyfriend at Notre Dame, and I had a girl back home.

 After getting settled on the train, I walked to the club car to have a soda and relax. I guess my sadness could be seen by others because a woman walked over and sat down next to me. She helped me talk through all that was going on, and she was tuned in to my history, my education, and my goals. She asked me my name, and then she told me hers.  All this time, I had been talking with Ella Fitzgerald.  Although her singing was more up Mickey’s alley, I sure knew she was a jazz phenomenon.  I was also able to tell her that I saw her name the past week on the marquee at the Fox Theater, in Brooklyn.  I’d like to tell you when Sally and I picked “our song”, that we picked an Ella Fitzgerald piece.  However, we chose Sarah Vaughn singing “Love me or leave Me”.   I did not share that with Ms. Fitzgerald.

 When I got off the train in Plymouth, Indiana, it was different for me. There was no one there to greet me. I was on my own.  If I wanted, I still had my job at Saint Joseph Hospital. Tony Ciambelli and I met at our three room suite, which was the entire second floor of our house on Woodward Avenue near Angela Blvd. That is about one mile directly west of the Notre Dame Campus. On most days, I walked to school.  If I wanted to take a bus, I had to take a bus downtown, where I transferred on to the Notre Dame bus.  Taking the bus would take almost as much time as walking.

 The house we lived in was owned by the Komp family.  We treated it as if it was our own home.  Even though we could go to the refrigerator on our own, both Tony and I would only go there if we had bought something that needed to be kept cool. But it was a very welcoming gesture. We both felt at home. So much so, we joined in family game night each week, usually Thursday. We played card and board games with Mr. and Mrs. Komp and their grown children.

 My Fall semester courses were vertebrate embryology and lab, German 1, Logic, General Physics and lab, and Sociology.  I made it through the semester, but passed embryo and sociology by the skin of my teeth. But, more importantly, I was progressing.  Even so, being a pre-med student was not so great. I simply chalked that up to my natural dislike for school work- the price I had to pay to be a doctor.  

 By mid-October, I was pretty much down, and going through the motions.  I can’t figure out how my mother and I arranged for her to call me on a Sunday, but we did arrange it, and she did call.  We talked about my depressed mood, and how much I missed Sally. Mother said, “Hold on, I have a surprise for you.”  The next voice was Sally’s.  Mother drove to Levittown, got Sally, then drove home.  That call gave me the lift I needed to keep on going.  Mother loved it all because she did something tremendous to cheer me up.  Also gratifying for her, she got to spend the day with Sally.  I would have liked that, as well.  We wrote to one another frequently, but, at that moment, talking to her was love’s dream.

 Shortly after that, Tony invited me to his home in Ferndale, Michigan, a suburb just north of Detroit. When I told my mother about the Detroit visit, she got very excited. Her cousins, the Atkinson’s, lived there.  She was sure any of her cousins, aunts, and uncles would come to see me.  I may have already told you, my mother was born on Parry Sound in the Georgian Bay of Lake Huron, or at least, she was a Canadian.  Many of her relatives lived in Park Hill, a small town further south, a few hours drive from Detroit.  That may not seem like a big deal to many people in today’s world. But then, at least in my family, aunts, uncles, and cousins were extremely close.  My cousins were almost like brothers and sisters to me.  So when we got to De-troy-it, as Mother would say, I went and visited the Atkinsons.  There were close to forty people there to say hello to Anna’s son, Richie. (my mother’s name was Anna).  That said something about Mother no one ever talked about with me.  She was loved by just about every Canadian to whom she was related.  But for a few, almost all of them lived in Canada, and made the drive to say hello to me.

 The fall semester began in September and ended the last week of January.  So over the Christmas holidays, students had finals to think about. So, like many other kids, I brought home the books I needed to review for the finals.  There was nothing eventful that semester, except for my all-nighter to study for a Sociology test. I was certain I would fail the course. I ended up with a solid D+.  Today, with all my education, I’d be as happy with that grade as I was then.  Going home for Christmas and being with Sally had completely absorbed my mind.  It was going to be the best Christmas ever.

[rtirman-blog]

30  Clearing Things UP

Closing up each day amounted to blowing a whistle and yelling, “Everyone out of the pool!” Once everyone was gone, we picked up towels and clothing left behind, and locked up.  Thankfully, with Willie’s help, we cleaned the pool each morning.  For a lifeguard, if it was a day you didn’t work the entire day until closing, you had no responsibility, except to leave, as was the case that day when I was to be at Sally’s around 8 PM.

 Sally lived on Birch Lane, about four short blocks from the Bluegrass Pool.  I had my own car…a 1954, Chevy 210 convertible, baby-blue with a dark blue top.  I left the pool at 8 PM sharp.  In a couple of minutes, I parked in front of her house, took a leisurely walk to the door, and rang the doorbell.  Mrs. Halpern, her mother, opened the door, and gave me a warm welcome.  Sally was almost ready.  Next, I got to meet Howard Halpern, Sally’s dad, and Ron Halpern, her 19-year-old brother.  Her dad worked for the Newsday, a popular, daily newspaper on Long Island. Her brother, Ron, was waiting to go to basic training in the Marine Corps.  I had seen him before, at the pool.  He was an expert diver off the high diving board. It was fun to meet Sally’s whole family, even her dogs.  The St. Bernard, especially.  I’m sorry, but I can’t remember that dog’s name, but I do remember his smell.  He smelled exactly like what Sally’s hair frequently smelled like.  As our relationship progressed, I watched Sally hug that dog countless times.  Many of those times, she got her head under the dog’s drooling mouth.  I never made a comment about that…she loved her dogs.

 All of a sudden, down the steps came Sally.  Wow!  I cannot say enough about what I saw when I looked up at her.  It was like seeing Miss America descending from heaven, except she wasn’t wearing a bathing suit.  In front of her family, I was cordial. I gave her quick kiss on the cheek.  She was all smiles…exactly the same as I was feeling. As soon as everyone told us to have a good time, we were out the door and in the car.  She leaned over, gave me a big kiss on my cheek, and a wonderful hug that made me feel even happier.  Off to the movie we went!

As you might have guessed, I can’t remember what movie we watched or whether we followed that up with a milkshake. What I do remember was us parking in the darkness near the Wolcott Pool.  We started kissing one another.  I think our lips were made for each other.  I can’t say when it was I fell in love with her, but I think I was in love at that moment.  Everything we did seemed natural to me.  Without detailing every moment, I soon, very gently, put my hand on her breast.  As I gently caressed both her breasts, she just kept on kissing me.  She seemed very content with what we were doing.  I assumed she had much more confidence, and experience, than me. I never gave it a thought that this might be a new experience for her.  But looking back and realizing she was 15 years old, I now think both of us were learning from one another. What matters here is my mother was right- be gentle!  

 While never straying from that advice, we managed to have many private and precious moments of “learning”.  It’s not as if there exists a linear progression of behaviors of which you must have command to get from the first kiss to sleeping together. Perhaps, for some people the end of that road is something other than being together in a bed. Maybe its realizing you both love one another.  I suppose my education “off the streets” seemed more like the list: A small kiss -> longer kiss -> French kiss->…-> sleeping together.  My brother and I had a friend named Dennis who, on a first date, would secretly stick his penis up through the bottom of a bag of popcorn and then tell his date to help herself.  My God, just think about the list he was following.  I have no statistics regarding his success or failure. But one thing is certain, his testicles and Id were connected at the hip (rightfully so), but needed some serious re-wiring.

 I’m certain there is no list, per se.  I don’t know if girls go through the same thing. But from my viewpoint, each guy has his own ideas forged by buddies, movies, brothers and sisters, and many others in his environment.  For sure, not many of the guys with whom I grew up have “the little man in the boat” on their list, or have ever heard of it.  

 I learned about it from Sam, the elevator man, or operator, at St. Joseph Hospital. Sam was a small, black man with whom I would talk whenever I used the main elevator during work.  He looked about forty-years old, but he was in his sixties.  Sam was filled with special knowledge regarding women and how to make love to them. After he told me about it, I promised him I would not forget it.  He said it is nice to be petting a lady’ vagina, but to really turn a woman on you must look at her vagina as a boat with a little man perched on the bow- the part of the vagina closest to the belly button.  Once you have found that little man, all you need to do is lightly stroke him, over and over, until your lady is in ecstasy.  He added that sometimes that little man is hard to find, but for certain, he’s in the boat.

 So, the little man in the boat has, at times, appeared on my list. Sometimes it is kind of hard to decipher whether it’s either the little man, the anchor, or the keel. In such an urgent moment, who has time to decipher?  Truthfully, I never got to meet the little man in the boat. I was too scared.  I remember her pulling my hand away ending a brave exploration.  Funny thing, I pulled her hand away as she tried to find the “big man in my undies.”   That was real scary!   I think we both discouraged each to not do something we wanted to do.

Inadvertently, I have cleared up a couple of “mysteries”.  You now know why Sally’s hair smelled like crap, and you also know I had my fourth (or fifth?) romantic encounter, and it turned into love.  There is one more thing about which I need to expound upon, and that is, Willie.

 Over the entire summer, Willie was ready, willing, and able to do anything we asked him to do.  His presence was a learning experience for everyone. He was capable of doing so much more than we thought he could do. When he cleaned the bathrooms, they got cleaned. After a bit of education, every job was carried out as we instructed.  I wished I could go back in time so I could give Willie an official job with an official title.  I believe everyone connected to the Bluegrass Pool would have been super proud.

 It turned out, he won the hearts of just about everyone in that community.  As I have told you before, Willie was working very hard to learn to put his head under water. He needed to learn to do that, and keep himself under water for, at least, three seconds.  I helped him each morning down at the shallow end of the pool.  One day, late in August, a bunch of kids came over to the lifeguard chair, where I was sitting, yelling for me to come to the shallow end of the pool. Willie promised all the kids he was going to go under water. Okay! and I walked to the shallow end. Willie was in waist-high water, waving and smiling at me.  By now, the pool at the shallow end was empty of people, except for Willie. Everyone was poolside cheering him on, Go Willie!, Go Willie!  I got into the pool and walked over to Willie. He was as happy as a lark.

 When I got in front of him, I smiled and said, whenever you are ready, and remember, I’ll be right here. Willie stretched out his arms, and began to lower his body.  Everyone quieted down as the water level began to rise to his chest, to his neck, and to his chin. He took a deep breath and held it. He closed his eyes.  The water climbed over his mouth, over his nose and eyes, and finally, over his head. I had to put my hand up to keep everyone quiet. In font of everyone, Willie disappeared! One-thousand one…one-thousand two…one-thousand three…one-thousand four…no Willie!   At one-thousand-seven, like the rising Phoenix, Willie blasted out of the water and into the sky!  The roaring crowd, people yelling, Way to go, Willie, and Willie smiling in triumph made a lasting, loving, and happy memory for all.

[rtirman-blog]

29  My Mother’s “Touch”

When I got home and walked into the house, my mother was still up. She wasn’t waiting for me. My mother never did that. She always let us handle our lives. I never once remember her telling me what time to be home. As soon as I walked in the door, she could tell something was wrong. She asked me if I wanted to talk about it. Well, even though I was embarrassed about what I did, I did need to talk. I told her everything. Naturally, when I got to the part of squeezing Sally’s tits (breasts to my mother), my mother said it sounded as though I mutilated the poor girl. Then what my mother said to me was pretty logical, and then, unbelievable!

 She reminded me that Sally told me not to worry and asked me to call her tomorrow. She said that doesn’t sound like she never wanted to see you again. Yes, that seemed to make sense. Then my mother told me to take Sally at her word, and not worry.  Then she told me, the next time I wanted to touch Sally’s breast to go ahead, it was alright as long as both Sally and I wanted to do that, but be gentle!

 I have told many people about talking to my mother that night. So many times people are astounded. They can’t believe I could have had a conversation like that with my mother. I never thought about it. That kind of conversation with my mother was “par for the course.” However, even if it was unusual for her, I would have talked with her that night. When I get bad feelings, I can’t keep them in. She was the next person I was with after I left Sally that night, so she got to hear about it. She was very understanding and accepting, and I honestly didn’t expect her to be any other way.  So I went to bed that night wishing I hadn’t done what I did, but I also had hope. My mother gave me that.

 The only thing I was careful about when I talked to my mother was my language. Not that she had hang-ups…I had them. And “tits” was one of those words I couldn’t get myself to say in front of her. In fact, when I was 15, in the middle of an angry outburst toward my mother, I yelled out, “f--- you up the behind”, then I made a dash up to my room.  My brother, Mickey, came to my room and asked, “behind? Really? Behind?  I told him I just couldn’t say “asshole” in front of Mother.  He went downstairs and told everybody why I said “behind”.  Evidently, it was okay to tell my mother to go f--- herself, but it wasn’t okay, in her presence, to refer to her rectal orifice as “asshole”. They all roared…even my mother. To this day, I have no idea why I was angry with her.

 The day after that hopeful conversation with my mother, I took a different way to work so I could go by Sally’s house. Although I was there the night before, surprisingly, her house looked different during the day. Perhaps I was able to see things in the daylight that made it looked different. More likely, her house looked different the night before because she wanted me there, and today, it had a foreboding look because she really didn’t want me there.  As I drove by her house, I was hoping she wasn’t able to see me. I felt guilty and embarrassed. I never drove by her house on my way to work. It’s crazy because I just told you I hoped she wouldn’t see me, but at the same time I was hoping to see her. God if I did, I would never be able to hide my embarrassment.  I drove passed her house and nothing happened. I was relieved, yet lonely.

 It was about 10 AM when I got to the pool. We opened at 11, and it was the lifeguards’ responsibility to put the place in shape for the Levittown folks to spend hours of fun in a safe, clean environment. When I got there, Willie was there waiting for me. Willie was 19 years old and big enough to play offensive guard on any football team in the country. When I first met him, I was a bit scared of him. I had never before been around a person was mentally retarded. But being with Willie for five minutes was enough to know he was a kind, gentle child. He was a five-year-old in a big man’s body.  He wanted love, attention, and approval. He smiled steadily with happiness, and he wouldn’t hurt a fly!  If you’ve ever read Steinbeck’s “Of Mice and Men,” you’d know what Willie was like. He was the embodiment of Lennie Small!

 Every day, Willie would be there, waiting for me to give him a job to do. He was a big help getting the pool ready to open by 11 AM.  He’d clean the bathrooms and sweep around the pool. Sometimes, I’d even let him help me vacuum the pool bottom. I didn’t pay him. It was completely voluntary on his part, and it truly was worthwhile activity for him.  His parents loved the fact he was permitted to help, and he just liked to help. In a way, it was his job. The one job I hated was cleaning the johns…especially the girls’ bathroom. If someone shit in a sink, it was in the girls’ room. Kotex was always thrown around, and the place generally stunk, Definitely a job for Willie!  And you know, he never seemed to mind. He did all his work with a joyous smile. I would sometimes look at him and get tearful. Always, it was a happy feeling just to watch him going about his business. Sometimes I just felt like hugging him.  Unfortunately, I didn’t do that. The best I could manage was an occasional pat on the back.

 Most days, after our chores were complete and just before we were ready to open the gate to the public, I gave Willie a private swimming lesson down at the shallow end of the pool.  We were so regular with those lessons that lots of kids would come early just to watch from outside the chain link fence. They cheered Willie on. There was some laughter when funny things happened. But the rest of the time, the kids cheered.  They were real supportive and encouraging. They were Willie fans!

Teaching Willie to swim meant he had to learn to get his head wet- an event he greatly feared, but wanted to learn. Standing up, with the water at his thighs, he would spread his arms, and slowly immerse his body. When the water reached his chest, he would yell out an “OOH!” and jump up.  With a bit of coaxing and calming him down, he sometimes would make it to his chin. Getting that far brought cheers, applause, and lots of “way-to-go Willie!”   Up to his chin was as far as he got. Throughout the summer, he never got his head wet during those lessons.

 That day, the day I drove passed Sally’s house, Willie and I did our usual jobs. It was hard for me to concentrate on what I was doing. Every ten seconds, I’d be looking out across the street hoping, and not hoping, Sally would be there.

She did say to call her. So, eventually, with some degree of reluctance and fear, I called her. Her mother answered the phone. I could tell by her voice on the phone she probably knew I mutilated her daughter’s breasts, but she never let on. She said to hold on for just a minute. I could hear her yell for Sally. I knew any second Sally was going to be talking on the other end of the phone, and I wouldn’t know what to say.  Funny thing, my worrying was all for naught. She seemed real glad to talk with me, and she wanted to see me that night. She told me she had a real nice time last night. (hmm, I wonder if she had a talk with her mother).  She told me she wasn’t planning to be at the pool that day, but she would walk her dogs over later on. When I hung up the phone, my worries were over. Now all I had to worry about was getting my hands on her tits… and being gentle. I hope my mother was right.

 My mother usually was right about things. She was funny. She coached a different ballgame than she played. She would fret and worry about everything, but to me she would say, “Richard, no need to fret and worry…if it is meant to be, it will be.” I cannot remember an instance following my mother’s advice having things go wrong. So I don’t know why I was still worried about touching Sally’s tits again. However, when I thought further about it, it was pretty scary. It seemed to me doing that, even gently, was an awfully personal thing.  And you know, it was I that had to touch her tits. My mother didn’t have to do it. Christ! If she had to do it, she would probably be fretting and worrying all over the place. She’d probably have a nervous breakdown.

My mother had had several nervous breakdowns, but I can only remember one. That was a very memorable moment because I got to see my mother’s breasts for the first time since infancy- a time in my life lost for eternity. I’m pretty sure I got to see them when I was a baby. But even if I could remember, it wouldn’t be the same. Then, I was supposed to see her breasts. That’s really weird- I’m talking about Sally’s tits, and end up thinking about my mother’s breasts. I guess I thought about it because it was during that nervous breakdown I got to see my mother’s breasts, but I wasn’t supposed to see them.

 It is really hard for me to remember how old I was when it happened. I remember telling you that my mother disappeared for 2 years when I was about 10. I’m pretty sure I didn’t see her for those two years. I know she came back to try and live with us again, and I suspect it was during that time she had the nervous breakdown.  So I suppose I was about 12 years old.  At that time, I couldn’t understand why she was so sick. Today, I think she felt terribly guilty not raising her three boys while she was not living where she wanted to be, and with whom she wanted to be. I never talked to her about any of this, and now that she’s dead, I’ll never find out for sure.

Anyway, she was shaking like a leaf, so we called the doctor. I was the only one home with her. She went upstairs to her room to lie down in bed until the doctor would arrive in an hour.  When the doctor finally arrived, I went upstairs to her room and quietly opened the door to tell her the doctor was here. She was sound asleep on her back. Her robe was open at the top. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There were her breasts! Right now, I can only call them breasts. Today, when I think of my mother at that moment, I can only think of someone who was about the most beautiful mother in the world who needed my help. However, back then, the best I could manage was to slowly and quietly back up out of the room. I carefully closed the door and did what I should have done to begin with- I knocked on it.

She awoke, and I told her that the doctor was here. There’s no way of knowing whether she knew what I saw or what I did.  The doctor visited with her and, I am assuming, gave her medication. She didn’t go to the hospital and, eventually, got better. She then left us, again. From all I have told you, it is obvious that she would return. How else would she be there to talk to when I arrived home after I mutilated Sally’s breasts?

 After that terrific phone call to Sally, I went back to my duties as a lifeguard.  I have to say, I was pretty happy. Sally wasn’t angry, and she wanted to see me again. Plus, I would get to see her sometime that afternoon when she walked her dogs. So all I had to worry about was handling, not manhandling, the breast of the girl about whom I was totally nuts.  

 I’m sure that day moved by slowly. Beside the normal boredom I felt while lifeguarding, I had the additional anticipation of seeing Sally with her dogs somewhere outside the pool. It was hard to concentrate, which is something a lifeguard ought to be doing. I saved only one person during the entire summer. A teenage boy clipped his chin on the diving board while attempting a reverse-jack-knife. As soon as his chin hit the board, his body went totally limp, and he dropped into the water below. I jumped into the water instantly, and brought him up to the surface and over to the edge of the pool. By this time, the entire crowd in the pool was surrounding us. Another lifeguard helped pull the boy out of the water and on to the concrete. Although hurt, he was breathing. We called an ambulance, and they carted him off to the emergency room. I remember people congratulating me. But it really didn’t seem like a big deal to me. In retrospect, perhaps my quick actions did prevent something more serious.

 That day, nothing of consequence happened, and it went by normally slow. However, late in the day, I looked up through the fence and saw her. She came to the fence. On their leashes were a small beagle looking dog and a huge St. Bernard. She was smiling and flirtatious. I loved talking with her, but I had to do my job. So we planned on me picking her up right after I finished my day at around 8 PM.