The administration and some classrooms were in Jenkintown, while the main student campus was in the nearby town of Glenside, which was made regionally famous by the famous “Gray Towers”, a fabulous castle-like building dominating the campus. With the change in name and status, the formal address for the University was changed to Glenside PA. In this close up, Gray Towers portrays its ancient safety properties consisting of a protective cadre of gargoyles arranged around the top of both towers. Who could ask for more safety than that?
To present a less lofty but more typical picture of campus architecture, we include Beaver Hall and Brookside Hall as examples. Both buildings have undergone a name change reflecting the newer Arcadia University accents, or have been removed altogether. But remember (I try to forget), Beaver and Brookside were so 1950’s and of course today is the 20teens, so a lot can and does happen over a 70 year period. In 2002, we returned to the Arcadia campus for Joyce’s 50th reunion, and you could hardly recognize the place. Expanded facilities, new buildings and athletic fields, and (perish the thought) men students!! We will revisit this a bit further on in this time
While buildings and landscapes may change over time, human nature and activities remain frighteningly constant. We all like friends, we tend to join things, we like to have fun together and of course we love to compete. My dad (Pop) used to say: “Nothing really changes, it’s a different crowd doing the same things in a different way”. This substantiates the old saying “history tends to repeat itself”. The following illustrations highlight many fine human attributes. First of all, a variety of campus activities including the Beaver Playhouse. We also love to make new friends and readily bond together “forever” (DII – 9, 10). When I was in grammar and secondary school, our sandlot football activity was centered on 6 man teams. It seems like the young ladies of the day operated in groups of six as well. Don’t know if the cuts and bruises were comparable, but somehow I think they were close (and beer came in 6 packs too).
While most of the girls joined one group or several, Joyce spent most of her time with the Beaver Players, an acting and production activity that put on or hosted various plays and entertainment productions during the year. Joyce’s main function with the group was in production. This group represented the behind the scenes “grunt” activity of the production. No limelight, no glitzy make up (jeans and tennis shoes), but without them no production. Joyce has always been a hard and dedicated worker, but never sought the limelight (good thing, or I wouldn’t qualify). Clearly the experience she gained at Cushing served her well in her future activities.
But all work and no play was not an option, and sure enough, the magnificent six were innovative enough to make their own fun, whether it was with their own car where they were clearly showing off their auto mechanical expertise, or tempting the fates by messing around on the railroad tracks demonstrating God knows what! Whatever it was, it must have been fun, except the poor car looks forlornly vulnerable sitting un-attended on the tracks. Of course other skills were learned within the academic environment such as in and out of windows at various hours of the night while simultaneously transporting a variety of liquid containers without spilling a drop. Borders on a competitive sport, which comes up next but not exactly in the same context as field hockey (as Joyce participated in while at Cushing). Finally, competition. These girls were fearlessly competitive. On any given Saturday (morning, noon or night) we might find them in “stiff” competition in any one of several venues (above), I don’t know who is winning, but only they picked a nice spot for a competitive sport (no letter offered). As can be seen, Joyce has been kept extremely busy from 1948-1950.
Before we enter our junior years at Middlebury or Beaver, we need to fill in some non-academic blanks between our last secondary school years and in the first two of our college years. Our breaks from school sort of followed the seasons. In addition to the long summer break (May-Sept.), there was Thanksgiving (a couple of days with a weekend at the end), Christmas (week before Christmas – day after the New Year) and spring break (maybe a week). One social activity gaining popularity since our junior years at Choate/Cushing were area dances hosted by various country clubs in the region. Included were the Brooklawn Country Club, Black Rock Yacht Club, Fairfield Beach Club, Fairfield Country Club (formerly Hunt Club, featuring polo matches), Greenfield Hill Country Club and the Wee Burn Country Club down in Westport. There were a couple of bands that played at these dances, and the one I remember was Lester Lannen. Lester actually had several bands that played various venues under his name on the same date.
Dances were generally held during times most kids were home from or out of school for any one of several breaks. One dance was special, though and was always held around Thanksgiving break. That was the Sadie Hawkins day dance. One of the most popular comic strips back in those days was Al Capp’s “Li’l Abner”, about hillbillies living in the town of “Dogpatch”. The Mayor of Dogpatch (Mayor Hawkins) had the most homely daughter in the region (Sadie), and in an attempt to marry her off, he arranged a race involving all single boys and girls. The boys were given a short lead starting time and the girls chased them. Any boy caught by a girl had to marry her, period. Well our Sadie Hawkins dance was not quite that compelling, but it did require the girls to invite a boy to the dance. So for once, we guys sat in anticipation to see if we would be tagged. I was involved in youth social programs at Brooklawn, since I was often there as a guest of my friend Toby Thompson (Shirley’s older brother and my best friend de jour). We were at the club often because we were pin-setters for the women’s bowling league that used the bowling lanes the club had available. It wasn’t long before we caught the eye of the club’s manager, Mr. Driscoll. He originated in South Carolina where youth dances were common place in the form of what was called a cotillion. These were very formal affairs usually reserved for introducing young ladies into society, or what we used to call “coming out” parties. While Toby and I had no interest in this level of sophistication, Mr. Driscoll saw the value of such dances in promoting the club. Thus it was, one afternoon after setting pins, he approached us and asked me if I would be willing to chair an arrangement committee for such dances at the club (not cotillion). I sort of cleared my throat and pointed out to him I wasn’t even a member and if my mom got wind of me being so involved, I would be killed. Many of Ma’s friends belonged to Brooklawn and she would feel terribly embarrassed if they found out. Mr. Driscoll said he knew I wasn’t a member but already had been an asset around there and exhibited the level of energy to make a real difference. He further said he would cover all explanations and wrote a note to my mom. I guessed it was a complement, so I agreed (and so did Ma, grudgingly). Our main duties were setting up the dance area with decorations and to promote the dance. Turns out the dances here and at the other venues were very well attended and we had pulled together several couples (6 to 8) who stuck together and attended most of the events within the region.
I can’t remember exactly who I took to these dances (selective amnesia) but I do remember Joyce showing up at all of them, and we always had a dance together. I don’t care who I was with, Joyce’s dance was always a highlight (usually the polka, after all we both had attended Miss Comers dancing classes). We laughed and carried on the whole time. After the dances, we would all congregate at someone’s house who had a piano. Usually that was Dave Crego, who lived just down the hill from the club. If we were at a different venue, it was someone else’s house like the Osborn’s in Fairfield. On the piano, Dave Crego was a virtuoso par excellence. He played completely by ear. Just whistle a tune and he would play the song without missing a note. Besides the dances, there were many individual events (cook outs etc.) that both Joyce and I attended (with different dates). We always “hammed” it up together. Joyce added a dimension to these affairs to which no one could possibly object – delicious homemade cakes, yum. At the end of an evening and after dates had been safely delivered home, Toby and I would spend several hours just driving around talking about things. We of course had the radio station tuned (Except for WWV West Virginia’s country station, I forgot the call signs) to our favorite music station and disc jockey; “Symphony Sid” holding forth from the Birdland Jazz Club in downtown New York City (only about 50 miles from Fairfield). Remember, this was the “Big Band” era and most of the great performers of the day played Birdland sooner or later. Birdland opened in 1948 and so it was quite new at the time. It was really a great radio show since Symphony Sid was securely ensconced right in the main room of Birdland where he spun his records, and from time to time went to the floor to broadcast live the featured band of the night.
During this transitional period of our youth (18-21) we had some interesting if not innovative times. While it is hard to believe today (2019), Connecticut along with Massachusetts were two of the most conservative states (regarding social issues) in the country. Drinking age was steadfastly held at 21 and the sale of any birth control devices or clinical procedures related thereto were forbidden (fortunately, this latter restriction was not currently an issue with any of us (as far as I know anyway). Not so in NY, where the drinking age was 18. Being only 45 miles or so to the state line, it was not much of an effort to drive to Portchester (closest New York town to the border) and right on the coast. Because of the CT traffic, there were plenty of bars and lounges. Back then, the most intriguing was an old barge sitting right on the shoreline of Long Island Sound. Obviously its name was the “Barge Lounge” (or Bar, not sure). To call it a lounge however, was a bit of a stretch. They had a great bar and a dance floor. What else was needed? Nothing except perhaps a degree of stability (literally). As long as it was high tide, everything was level and fine, Low tide presented an entirely different feel and a definite equilibrium challenge with a list of 10 to 15 degrees. The list wasn’t a fixed one but one that would shift with the bodies inside. Even if you hadn’t, you would swear you had a little too much to drink.
One night we were visiting with a very good and mutual friend, Paul Dixon. He lived atop the same hill as the Brooklawn Country Club, in a beautiful house on several acres of well-groomed land, with strategically placed coolers of beer (and yes, some soft drinks) for the occasion (and this occasion was not a unique one). One of the fun and hilarious activities was a spirited game of “Sardines”. For the uninitiated, Sardines was (and still is) hide and seek in reverse. One person is chosen, who typically grabs a beer and goes off and hides (for a property that size, boundaries had to be set). After a pre-set count, the rest of the crowd would go look for the hider. When someone found the hider they would join him/her in the hideout. Each discovery would increase the population of the hideout and if the hider didn’t think ahead, it could get hilarious. Of course, the last person to discover the hiding place, became the next hider (if time permitted). Now, people attending the festivities came as couples (none married), which made the game even more interesting. Say Joe and Sally came together, and Joe was selected as the hider. He would go and find a suitable, but obscure place, and during the search when Sally got close enough, Joe would utter “psst!”, and Sally would join him, and then they would really hunker down hoping it would be a while before anyone else found them. Hardly ever worked. By the time I found my date, 3 or 4 people would have beaten me out. Of course each new addition would try to signal their “main squeeze” as well. Ahh, fun in the old days.
One summer day when we guys were all sitting around chewing the fat (shooting the breeze, x!!@$%*, etc.) Paul Dixon up and suggested we need to go to Birdland because one of the era’s best, Sarah Vaughan was currently performing there. One of her most notable songs was indeed the Lullaby of Birdland. What a great idea we all agreed, and that night we piled into his car (just guys on this one). Don’t remember how exactly we got there or where we parked. I just remember the “room” where she performed. Boy, the place was packed. In one corner, elevated above the floor was a glass cube where Symphony Sid was ensconced doing his thing. The picture shown in DII-11 gives you a feel for the Place. The wait staff literally could not reach all the tables so drinks and cash were passed back and forth. Talk about an honor system, but it seemed to work out just fine. What a great night! Sarah was all we hoped for and then some (she still, along with Ella Fitzgerald, remains two of my favorite female performers).
In the early summer of 1950, one of the Osborn’s (Bob or Dick) knew someone from the Bridgeport Hydraulic Co. (water works), who provided us access to the Saugatuck Reservoir, and they were planning a picnic for the following weekend. I wasn’t planning to go since I had recently broken up with the girl I had been dating. Toby asked why I didn’t ask Joyce. She had recently broken up with the guy she had been dating. My initial response was “you have to be kidding, I mean she is a great kid and we always have fun at these events, but a date? Never occurred to me”. Toby responded: “look she is no longer a kid, and if you aren’t thinking of yourself, think of us. What would we do on any picnic without Joyce and one or two of her cakes?” Excellent and compelling point, I conceded, but I was very skeptical she would agree to go since her break up was so recent. That was not the case and when I called, she enthusiastically accepted, and as they say “the rest is history”. And it was. The future evolving from that moment on has been an interesting one to say the least (and it is still unfolding) (DII-11).
The relationship started almost at once, at least as far as I was concerned. As the picture shows, the reservoir was a beautiful lake, but in some areas had very steep banks, since it was part of a major river valley. Access to our spot was a narrow, rocky path that traversed slightly downward across the face of a very steep embankment, then turned almost 180 degrees and on down to the flat area, which included a few trees and a small beach. It didn’t help that a recent rain left everything wet and slippery. About 2/3 of the way across the first traverse, the path narrowed even more, and I began to reach out to a small tree on the up-bank, but realized it was dead, and turned to warn Joyce just as she reached out and grabbed it, whereupon it tore from the bank and she and tree made it to the picnic area without benefit of the switchback, resulting in a lot of scraped elbows and legs. She was OK though, and acted like nothing ever happened. No complaining, moaning or groaning, just laughter and good fun. The laughter was enhanced when some of the girls learned a lesson: when emerging from a body of water with wet tee shirts little was left to the imagination!!
What a great picnic it was, and I was smitten by the all of a sudden pretty young lady I almost didn’t call for a date. While we dated several more times during the summer, nothing spectacular and mostly in her living room watching game shows on TV (popular back then), and hoping her mom and dad were going to retire early (they were pretty cooperative). I had a friend under the same set of circumstances that overstayed what her dad thought was appropriate time, whereupon he came halfway down the stairs and called out to the guy and asked him how he liked his eggs? I never stayed that late, but sometimes late enough to greet Gordy, her brother as he came home from his date. He was a considerate guy, though and always sang loudly or whistled a song on the way up the front steps, which gave us a nice “heads up”.
By this time we no longer had to drive to N.Y. for our evening entertainment. Right on the coast on US 1 (Fairfield Rd), near where it crossed Ashe Creek (where the Rooster River entered Long Ialand Sound) was a popular “Juke Joint” called the Ritz Ballroom. Here many great bands performed, including the headliner shown in the picture (Tommy Dorsey), as well as his brother Jimmy. I went to see not only Tommy Dorsey, but Gene Krupa and Buddy Rich, two great precussionists (drummers), Louis Armstrong, and Benny Goodman. Oddly enough we never drank much, or even danced. It was so much fun just listening to them (DII-11).
Shortly before we had to leave for college, Toby and I decided to have a clam bake. We had been wanting to do this for some time. His mom offered to help with advice and preparation. She was a good soul. Now, Toby’s house sat atop a hill. To the left of the house was an asphalt driveway that turned into a turn-around area a bit before house, where you could turn left into the garage under the house. Left of the driveway was a steep bank dropping down to a flat creek bottom. I was a nice permanent creek with flat bottomland wide enough on one side to accommodate a small cabin and porch, a Franklin stove (wood burning), and a couple of bunk beds. There was plenty of room out front for a bonfire pit, a picnic table and benches.
Now a true clambake required a pit, perhaps 3 or 4 feet deep (much like the Emu pit we learned in scouts). We then lined the sides and bottom with flat rocks (plenty of them in that creek bottom). The hard work done, it was time to go shopping. Two stops only, the first stop was the Ocean Sea Grill and Sea Food Market down town. Here we picked up the basic ingredients. We were expecting 8 to 12 people (4 to 6 couples). We bought chicken (half/person), shrimp, lobster (chicken lobster – 1lb. each), corn on the cob, and of course clams. If there were other items, I don’t remember. The second stop was Fairfield beach, which had plenty of the correct species of sea weed that included small capsules of salt sea water all along their green foliage. We collected a couple of buckets filled with the weed. Back home we built a huge fire in the bottom of the pit and while that burned down, we packaged all the ingredients into individual cheese cloth bundles for each guest based upon relative cooking times. By the time the fire burned down all the rocks were good and hot. We then loaded the pit with the food packets, item by item, with the longest to cook (chicken) on the bottom, followed by lobster, shrimp, corn and finally the clams which took the shortest time to cook (steam). With the rocks along the side still very hot, we packed the seaweed against the rocks and covered the top with a tarp, to let the whole thing steam to gourmet perfection. The little salt water capsules would burst upon hitting the hot rocks and saltwater steam would do the rest (DII-11).
To augment the clam bake, we purchased a ¼ keg of beer, and as the clams, etc. baked, we of course verified the beer was suitable for consumption, then went up to the house to help the girls (Janice (Toby’s gal), Joyce and Mrs. Thompson) get all the implements together and of course test the Manhattan Clam Chowder Mrs. T. was preparing for our appetizer. As the troops began to show up, we decided it was time to move on site with the chowder. Toby and Jan took that and Joyce and I ran after them. There was a steep bank down from the house to the asphalt drive. Joyce got going a little too fast, and lost her footing and fell flat, spread-eagle on the driveway. Oh, man, that must have smarted at the very least, I thought as I rushed over to “scrape” her off the pavement. A few cuts and bruises here and there, and if there were tears in her eyes you couldn’t tell for the smile that lit up her face. Back at the house, Mrs. T. washed and patched where needed, and turned us loose to join the party. Joyce, who I now considered “my Joyce” was nothing but upbeat the whole evening. Those who know her now would expect no less.
We went back down where there was beer, good friends and the clams. After we had our chowder, we decided it was time to check things. Lifting the edge of the tarp, with steam escaping, the clams had popped open in their cheese cloth packages signaling they were done. These were handed out, and by the time everyone had eaten and drank through the course, the corn was done, and the process was repeated, then the shrimp, etc. When we finished we all laid back and sang what I like to call “campfire songs” (they actually had tunes and melodies you could sing). These were songs that everyone knew, and was just the antidote for the fabulous meal we had just finished (by the way, we warned everyone not to eat anything that day before the feast). I got Joyce home around 11:00PM and her folks were still up in the living room (watching Jack Parr, and if you remember him, you are really old). When we got into the house, her dad took one look at her with the bumps and bruises, and announced that he would likely have to increase his insurance if we continued to date. I assured him I would be taking better care of her in the future.
At this point in time (1950) the Korean War had started, the country was fully engaged, and the military draft was reactivated. This turned out to be a major game changer for all of us. Toby graduated from Wesleyan College in 1951, and joined the Marine Corps., and was stationed at the Marine base at Quantico VA, where he undertook officer training. From that point on, our relationship forever changed. The Marine Corp. culture was deeply ingrained in its recruits, and remained with them (I think) for life. And to be fair, it probably saves lives and gives them the stamina and drive to do what they do. Just isn’t my cup of tea, as will become clear later on in this retrospective. While we still remained good friends, interests just spewed in opposite directions.
I was excited about entering my junior year the following fall. I had just finished my final summer working for Ed Moss Construction Co. and the summer itself was amazingly transformative (to say the least). Much of my excitement was dampened by the fact Joyce was heading south to the Philadelphia area while I was heading north back to Middlebury. But it was going to be a great year. Again I played football and was active on the ski patrol and best of all, I had a room in the Fraternity House. It was a corner room (NE). I always enjoyed a room cool at night (still do). We had windows facing both north and east. I will guarantee everyone reading this: it got cold in Middlebury in winter, and it snowed a lot. In downtown Middlebury, the snow plows never got down to the asphalt, and the snow depth (while tightly packed) grew and grew. The first floor retail stores downtown had to dig stairs down to their front doors. One morning I awoke to a heavy weight on my feet (the north window was at the foot of my bed) and I had it open just a little. When I looked down, a snow drift had formed from the window sill across my bed (and feet) all the way to the floor. I was reminded of a picture I saw taken by someone on the Union Pacific Railroad showing a rail shack (for tools and maintenance stuff) filled with snow driven through the keyhole in the front door. Believe me when I say driving in a snow storm (not even a blizzard) felt like driving in a coma, and if the wind was blowing and the snow was swirling, it was almost mesmerizing. I say all this as a prelude to Winter Carnival that year.
As might be obvious, Joyce was my date for Winter Carnival. Carnival was a February event and the weather was always “iffy”, which was usually good news for the skiing community (new snow, etc.). Joyce decided it would be a good idea to drive up with a couple of friends, from Beaver College located close to Philadelphia PA (almost the south). I know one of her companions had a guy attending St. Michaels College just north of Burlington in Colchester VT. Not sure what happened to the other gal, but they made it up to Middlebury in one piece. We had a great weekend, what with the hockey games, ski races and jumping (I had to be on the slopes anyway) and of course the main event the dance on Sat. night. The girl that went to St. Michaels took the car and actually made it back in good shape Sunday morning. By the time they loaded up and took off back “south”, it had begun to snow. Joyce was the designated driver of the bunch (her car). By the time they reached Rutland, it was a virtual white-out, and they missed a turn and were heading up Killington Mt., not a trivial route in good weather. After the weekend, Joyce was trying to stay awake and on the road (which was slippery, of course). She almost slipped off the road a couple of times, but recovered, and got back on the right route and proceeded on. During that time the other two girls were trying to stay warm and Joyce kept cranking the window down to stay awake amongst the whoops and hollers from the back seat. They made it back to Beaver OK, but the snow delayed them, so they had to enter through a window, an art so perfectly perfected earlier in their college careers. Who said a college education is not necessary?
As we entered the spring semester of my junior year, national issues seemed to begin to interfere with the normal stuff kids my age were used to doing. Principal among these was the Korean War. Of course if your marks (or connections) were good enough you got an exemption. I met neither criteria. I was having a good time and my grades were nowhere close to earn the exemption, so I had the opportunity to take the Draft Deferment Test administered in the spring. Just get a 70 on that and I was home free. Then a disaster happened that turned into a God-send. The disaster was the 24 hour flu. And boy, did I come down with a case the day I had to take the blooming’ test! Both ends were seriously compromised and did I ever feel awful, you know, you’ve all been there where you are sure you have to get better to die. Well two thirds of the test was not too bad, but at least one-third was on economics, the course I was signed up to take next semester. Other than a vague concept of supply and demand, I knew nothing of economic theory or concepts. My score on the test was 68. Not too bad considering. In any case, it was done and over, and probably won’t make a big difference anyway.
I finished out the year and was really excited because I had landed a job with Finch-Pruyn Paper Company, home based in Glens Falls NY. The job was on a logging crew operating in the Adirondack Mountains out of the little town of Blue Mt. Lake. Talk about a pretty little lake! I guess the way to describe this summer job is one of a “go-fer” (“Hey kid, “go fer this” or “go fer” that. The logging camp was simple but sprawling and of course temporary. There was one main mess building, a utility building (or lean-to) that was mostly full of logging tools in one area near the front, but mostly fire wood. Boy did I split some wood that summer, even tough, sinewy logs such as sycamore. There were several buildings used for sleeping quarters and of course a multi-hole outhouse for obvious use. Most of the loggers were French-Canadian with very limited use of the English language. There was one crew of American boys from the N.Y. State Ranger School located at Cranberry Lake, over near Syracuse. These students would earn associate forestry degrees and given the skills needed for a wide range of forestry field activities, including driving tractors and associated logging equipment. The tractors were steel-tracked Caterpillars (“Cat’s”) that pulled behind them what I will call a skidding arch. The arch was basically a two wheeled trailer with a tall (8-10’) heavy metal arch that had a large pulley wheel attached to the top. On the back of each Cat was a steel cabled winch, with a large attached hook. The winch cable was threaded through the pulley and down to the ground, on the hook were 5 or 6 six eight foot chains with hooks on both ends.
The Ranger School boys had their own tractor and arch, and kept pretty much to themselves. I was a college student, no less, and not considered as part of a desirable “social class”, and they were to say the least, aloof. They could not speak French (or the Canadian version thereof) and had no interaction with them at all. Fortunately for me, one non-student Canadian guy who interacted with the crews, was from the Gaspe Peninsula and spoke good English. He was a strapping big guy with a good sense of humor and we hit it off right away. He turned out to be my main teacher, and since he was liked and respected by the other Canadians, I got along with them all and could care less if the Ranger School boys interacted or not.
Back to the skidding arch for a moment. As I said, my main function was to fill in where needed. One morning Jacques Boudreaux, the camp foreman, told me I needed to help out a logging crew who had lost one member for a couple of days. It was not a nice job like driving a tractor or anything, but as a choker setter for the skidding crew. Remember, we were in the mountains and they were rugged and rocky as expected. There were also occasional streams (temporary and permanent) that ran down the mountain sides. The fellers would saw down the tree with a cross-cut saw (no chain saws yet), limb and top them leaving the tree bole (trunk) where it fell. The Cat crew would go pick them up, usually 5 or 6 logs at a time. The five or six chains were attached to the cable coming down from the arch. Each chain (choker) had to be wrapped around the butt end of each log. Once that was done, the Cat operator would winch the several log butts off the ground and proceed to skid the logs down the mountain. The choker setter had to follow, however. The steel tracks of the Cat’s would tear up the ground, and where they crossed a creek there was usually a large mud hole (waist deep or more). In these situations, they would lower the logs to the ground, proceed across the mud hole playing out cable as they went, and once on solid ground on the other side, would winch the logs to them, lift them up and proceed. Problem was when they lowered the logs, tension relaxed on the choker chains and usually more than one log would come loose in the mud hole. Choker setter had to wade into the bog, grope for the end of the lose log(s), find the associated chain (usually still attached to the cable) and reset the choker. Since they were paid by the trip, time was of the essence. Once they were ready to go, it was full speed to the landing (where logging trucks were loaded), and back up the mountain. Even though the “Cat’s” were not that fast, it was almost impossible to keep up with them up and down the mountain. Boy, did I ever sleep at night, and was I ever happy when the absent crew member returned.
I finally ended up as a “tally whacker”. In a logging crew, the fellers were paid by the piece. That is for the trees they actually cut and fell. Someone had to mark their stumps with a crayon so they could individually get credit for it. You can bet I was everyone’s best friend. Most of the loggers were family men and at least weekly wanted to call home. Usually it was my friend Robert who would go with them to help with making the calls. One week he was gone, and they (in very broken English) asked me if I would substitute and help them. Of course I agreed. The problem was with the telephone operators. They were supposed to be bi-lingual being so close to the border, but that was seldom the case, at least in any conversational sense. So I served as interpreter and helped the guys get in touch with “Mom and kids”. Man, you cannot imagine how grateful they were. So grateful they wanted to buy me a beer next chance we were in town. Turns out that was the next weekend, when we all went into Tupper Lake. They had a favorite watering hole, but had a few other errands to do. They told me to meet them in a half hour or so at that location. I got there early and was having my first at the bar, when the door burst open, and a crew of the roughest looking guys (not ours), came in, saw me and stopped in their tracks. The silence was defining and I was decidedly nervous, since they were between me and the door. They slowly moved in toward me and closed in from the sides and I was just preparing for the worse and the bartender was moving toward the phone, when “BOOM” through the door burst our guys, and they were even bigger. The apparent leader of the first bunch, with a sheepish smile on his face just looked at me at said “ga day” and the crew quietly filed out the door. We did hoist a few that afternoon, and it didn’t cast me a cent (only a hangover) and the debt was well paid.
There were two other structures at the camp: one I call the input shed, where all the food and supplies were stored and the other might be well characterized as the output shed or the latrine. This was commonly referred to as the “10 holer” in that it would accommodate 10 occupants at a time. It was a low building with the door at one end and a single window about halfway down across from the seats. As can be imagined, that was a popular place right after breakfast. Most crews would not be back before quitting time in the evening. One morning I was in the chow hall and a huge racket erupted from out back, I mean the crashing and hollering was defining, we all ran out and the whole latrine was listing dangerously to one side. What happened? Well, as usual the place was slam full of guys, when a large black bear stuck his head in the door and uttered a loud “woof”. Well pandemonium followed. One guy actually got stuck in the window trying to get out. Of course the bear didn’t stay around, but the guys didn’t know that. They all got out all right, but the rest of the guys were just rolling with laughter. Two nights later, I heard a single rifle shot. Next morning a bear was found shot at the door of the supply hut. Of all the things supervisor Jock Boudreau was expert in, none was better than his marksmanship, and he had the trophies to prove it. He made that shot from his porch almost 100 yards away using a Springfield 30-06 rifle. One shot only. Don’t know if it was the latrine bear or not. If it was, he must have died with some level of satisfaction at his previous caper.
One cool, clear and low humidity morning when everything just seemed to sparkle, I was deep in the woods walking from one logging chance (site) to another in my stump marking circuit. It is hard to describe the woods on a day like this. Walking was almost silent with deep cover of pine and spruce needles. The occasional brook crossing (and they actually “babbled”) were ice cold and crystal clear. At 6’ one could actually count the pebbles on the bottom, and the exposed rocks had deep, green, soft and cool moss covering them. Upon looking up, there was Boudreau standing there leaning on his double edged ax of which he was seldom without. I swear, he was like a ghost. The men all agreed that he was remarkable on the ground he covered and how silently he did it. A little bit scary if you ask me. Anyway, after I recovered, and gave him the top of the morning, and hoped everything was OK. He just nodded. Then he just said in his rich French-Canadian accent: “Father called, left message, your name in front of draft board. Don’t want to be drafted, act quickly”. He understood I might have to leave, and offered to drive me to the train station for the trip home, and to forward any pay I had coming to me. It was a “no brainer” for me, I needed to go.
While waiting in the train station, I witnessed a bit of an altercation between a “well juiced” lumberjack and some others on the other side of the station. All of a sudden, the doors to the station burst open and the doorway darkened. Now you all know the size of those big double doors on train stations (maybe you don’t) but they were substantial. Well in this doorway stood a NY State Trooper with shoulders almost filling the space. A dead silence fell over the waiting room, and without a word, the trooper strode into the station and literally lifted the man off the floor by his shirt front, and marched with him out of the door with legs kicking. Then a distinctive bang of a vehicle’s back door, an engine starting and they were gone. An elderly guy sitting near me said “sure breed ‘em big up here”. I agreed and he followed that with: “and they don’t fool around about it either”. Couldn’t argue with that either. I was impressed and haven’t seen anything like it since.
I had a lot of time to think on the way home, and concluded four years in a bunk on a ship or barracks beat the heck out of two years in a fox hole in Korea. After talking to Dad and Dick, and of course Joyce, I took off for the Naval Recruiting Station, 66 Church St. New York City and signed up. The dye was cast for the next four years. I was given orders to show up at the Naval Station in Bainbridge MD near the end of August. To say I wasn’t disappointed would be a flat out lie. I was devastated that I had to interrupt my college matriculation, my potential marriage and god knows what else, was tough to take. I was too young and full of it to realize disappointment as often as not would offer up opportunity. For this to happen was largely determined by attitude. The day before I left for Bainbridge and boot camp, we had a gathering at our house, which included Dave Crego at the piano, Ma, Pop, Dick, several friends and of course Joyce. I had a great if a bit sad send off and early the next morning Dick drove me to the railroad station where I headed the regional naval recruitment center. Once there and checked in, we were herded into busses and on to boot camp in Bainbridge MD. Because my name was Barker, I was first on the list of recruits alphabetically. I was handed all the files that were to be transferred and was assigned to be in charge of the group (sort of). All of this was happening because a failed one test. This failure was a blessing in that it shaped the rest of my professional career. To paraphrase one of Winston Churchill’s quotes: “Success is moving from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm”. As a corollary to that I would add: one learns from failure and not success, which is simply the result of the learning. With that observation, we move on to the third decade, the rollicking “50s. Oh, just one more comment to make during this part of the narrative. This was early 1952 and Joyce had her senior picture taken. Well I did too in a way, except I had just successfully finished basic training and was heading for Jacksonville Naval Air Station and so was dressed in prescribed summer US Navy Uniform (Whites). Both pictures came out well, except the civilian looked much better (still does). Thus we usher in Decade III, the decade of the ‘50’s (DII-12)