My Parents In 1948 (22K)

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Small Town Life

Located ten miles north of the city of Lancaster, Pa., the Borough of Manheim was incorporated in 1837. At the time the population was about 700.¹

The town was originally laid out by Henry William Stiegel in 1762, who named the town after the village of Mannheim in Baden, Germany, his original home.¹

At some time between 1763 and 1768 Stiegel erected a large glass factory at the corner of South Charlotte and Stiegel Streets. Supposedly the cupola on top of the building was over one hundred feet high. When I moved to Manheim we lived on land which the factory had occupied, and we occasionally found bits of colored glass which came from the factory. The glass was very fine, and is highly valued today. After being unoccupied for forty years, the building was razed in 1809, and the brick was used to build a hotel in Neffsville.¹

Stiegel, who preferred to be called Baron Stiegel, was an eccentric character. One of the stories about him states that on the top of his home at the corner of High and Prussian (now Main) Streets, was a cupola in which a watchman was stationed. Stiegel made frequent trips to Elizabeth Furnace in a coach drawn by four (some accounts say eight) beautiful horses. Upon Stiegel's approach to Manheim the watchman supposedly fired a cannon to let the people know of his arrival. At that sound the residents flocked to the house, and a band made up of employees from his glass works proceeded to the cupola; the baron then made his entrance into town to the sound of cannon fire, music, and the cheers of the inhabitants.¹

It is a recorded fact that he deeded the lots on which the Zion Lutheran Church (formerly the Evangelical Lutheran Church) is located to the church in consideration of the payment of one red rose annually to him and his heirs forever. The church still makes that payment every year in June.¹

Sometime after the end of the Revolutionary War Stiegel died a pauper. The date of his death and his burial place are unknown, and there are no surviving pictures of him.

In 1906 the United States Asbestos Company was formed in Manheim, with a capitalization of $60,000. In 1929 it became a division of the newly formed Raybestos-Manhattan Inc. By 1940 it was by far the largest industrial organization in the town, employing about 1,200 people. My father worked there from 1939 until his death in 1958. It was his first full time permanent job since the start of the Great Depression.

When I went to live with my parents, our home was on South Charlotte Street, but shortly thereafter we moved to a five room apartment on West Ferdinand Street.

In 1941 the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, and the entire country mobilized for World War II. I was busy with school, Boy Scouts, and music, but along with everyone else I found time to do what I could. I helped collect newspapers and aluminum utensils (tin cans were made of steel, not aluminum), marched with the band in patriotic parades, and even helped knit an afghan as part of a school project. Later in the war I also stood watch as an aircraft spotter.

The large square in Manheim was still the center of activity for the town. On Saturday nights it was filled with local residents as well as farm families doing their weekly grocery shopping and social visiting. Located on the square was a barber shop, department store, soda fountain and dance hall, hardware store, grocery store, and other retail establishments, so it was always a busy place.

For those of us still in school, the soda fountain was the meeting place the rest of the week. Many hours were spent there listening to music, dancing, reading the magazines on sale there, and even buying an occasional soda.

Meat, sugar, gasoline, and other items were rationed since we were told they were needed for the war effort. Since then there has been some question as to whether or not it was really necessary, but it was a reality we had to put up with at the time. The difficulty of getting gasoline was especially hard on teenagers, but that was partly circumvented by the fact that farmers had a very large allotment because of their importance as suppliers of food. Most of the students who had access to autos were from farm families, so if you had a friend who lived on a farm, you didn't have too much trouble. Farm boys were very popular.

It was during this period that I entered the work force with part time, after school work, culminating in night shift work after I graduated. With all the able bodied young men in the Armed Forces, and war production work in high gear, jobs became easy to get. However, my major interest centered on music, as the following stories will indicate.

The passing years have caused major changes in Manheim. Although the population has grown to about 5,500 in 1997, the local industry has shrunk. During the '70s the environmental movement wreaked havoc with the U.S. Asbestos Division. Instead of employing 1,600 people as in the factory's heyday, the present labor force is down to 400-500. Manheim is now a "bedroom" community. A small shopping center has been built east of town on the Lititz road, and most of the establishments are gone from the square. Many persons shop at a major mall close to Lancaster. As one life long resident remarked to me in 1995, "You know, you can't even buy a pair of shoes in Manheim any more." He was correct.

A pretty gazebo has been built in the center of the square, but signs prohibit loitering after six P.M. The old days are gone.

For more information about Manheim, click The Manheim Historical Society

My Parents And I - 1939 (23K)

1. History of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, with Biographical Sketches of many of its Pioneers and Prominent Men. Franklin Ellis and Samuel Evans, Philadelphia: Everts & Peck, 1883.

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My Father

As soon as my father found full time employment after the Great Depression he got the family back together. I remember one day shortly after we moved to West Ferdinand Street in Manheim that he came home and proclaimed rather proudly, "I got a raise today. I am now up to a dollar an hour, so we should be in good shape from now on."

Besides his family he had two major interests; sports and helping young boys. He had been serving as secretary of the Manheim Athletic Club, which sponsored adult football and baseball teams, but in 1940 he gave that up when he and Carson Lebo formed the Mighty Mites football team for boys eleven to fifteen years of age. Somehow they managed to get uniforms and equipment, and since high school football was not that common in those days, there were several other similar teams in the Lancaster area for competition.

The football team led to the formation of the Manheim Boys Club. The thirty boys in the club soon fixed up a meeting room in an old barn, and while regular meetings were held weekly, almost any night of the week you would find most of them there, shooting baskets, talking sports, or otherwise hanging out. One of the adults was always there also, and I don't believe any of the boys ever got into trouble while the club was in existence.

In the meantime I had also become active in the Boy Scouts, and when the Scoutmaster had to resign for health reasons, I asked my father to help out temporarily. He kept the job until my mother died nine years later. By that time I had been in and out of the Army and was married with a son.

Besides his rapport with the boys, I think his greatest talent was recruiting other good men to become active in the Boy Scout movement, some as leaders, and others in the all important "behind the scenes" work. It was during this period that the Boy Scout Hall was built with no debt! After my father died a tree was planted and dedicated to his memory on the property. The last time I was in Manheim I found the tree, but the accompanying plaque was gone. How quickly they forget.

He always had time for me. Sunday was our day, and I have written elsewhere about the times we spent together. Any other time I needed him he was there for me. Regardless of how busy he was, his family always came first. He died in 1958 at the age of 51.

My Father In 1957 (38K)

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My Mother

In addition to being a wife and mother, she was a musician, seamstress, and part time waitress. My favorite time of the day was while she had dinner cooking, and with a few minutes of spare time on her hands, she would sit down at the piano and play her favorite songs. Although she studied piano for only one year, she was one of those rare individuals who make the rest of us would be musicians jealous-she could listen to the music and then play it, melody , harmony, and rhythm. How I envied that talent! I have been told that she was also a good violinist when she was younger-I regret that I never heard her play.

She was always active, always laughing, and her laughter was contagious. She didn't laugh at anyone, yet she always found a reason to laugh with someone. She had an excellent sense of humor.

She sometimes made her own clothing, but only if she happened to see a pattern she really liked. But she loved to make things for other people, particularly for children.

She was also an excellent waitress, both a dinner waitress and a cocktail waitress. She worked partly to help out with the family finances, partly because she liked being around people. She was no pushover, however. One evening when she was working as a cocktail waitress at the American Legion Home, one customer was particularly demanding. At the end of the evening he left her a dime for a tip. Picking it up she ran after him and handed it to him, saying, "Here, you forgot your change." He was a little less obnoxious thereafter.

Since we never owned a car, mother on her bicycle was a common sight around Manheim. One time she rode to Baltimore to visit her aunt, a distance of almost one hundred miles. It was a two day trip each way.

She died in 1951 at the age of 46.

My Mother At The Piano (40K)

My Mother And Her Famous Bicycle (23K)

Lancaster New Era Article ca. 1948 (85K)

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Sundays With Father

After I moved back to Manheim in 1940, my Father and I usually reserved Sundays for an activity together. Usually we took a field trip of some kind, such as fishing, just walking along the stream, or riding north from town, where we left our bicycles and hiked into the hills. In those days we could leave our bikes at the trailhead and they would still be there when we came back several hours later.

Even when we just fished the creek that meandered along the edge of town, we almost always discovered something interesting, such as an unusually good spot for catching fish, a family of groundhogs moving to a new home, etc. One day we came across a horse which had fallen into the stream and was stuck in the mud so that he couldn't get out. His cries for help sounded almost human. If we hadn't found him and helped his owner pull him out, I believe he would have struggled until he was too weak to keep his head above water.

On our walks we found where the first violets and Jack In The Pulpits of spring appeared, or watched groups of tiny sparrows chase crows back and forth across the blue sky. One mid-winter day when snow covered the ground, we saw a pair of wild Mallard ducks, a male and a female. Although the slow moving water along the sides of the creek was covered with ice, the pair was swimming in the narrow, not yet frozen stream flowing rapidly down the middle. Since they didn't appear to be injured, why had they not flown to warmer climates with their friends? Was it possible they were on their way south even at that late date, and had allowed us the privilege of their company at a rest stop?

One time we apparently approached too close to a killdeer's nest, and so we were treated to the "broken wing" display of the mother. As she flapped apparently helplessly across the ground, all the while emitting the most pitiful cries as if in intense pain, we followed her, knowing full well how this drama would end. Finally, when we were far enough away from the nest, she soared into the sky, sounding her "killdeer, killdeer" as if to proclaim to all her friends how she had tricked those foolish humans.

The rare Lady's Slipper orchids and the Mountain Laurel grew in the hills north of Manheim, my favorite hiking area. Sometimes we walked along the power line to the fire tower, with its beautiful view of forests, farms and small towns in all directions; other times we went up the railroad tracks to the tiny but lovely lake and stately old trees of Penryn park. My father told me that in the 1920s trainloads of picnickers had filled the park every weekend. I don't really know why it lost favor with the public, but I suppose other forms of mass entertainment became more popular. Perhaps it was due to the intercession of that new medium, radio, that led to its downfall.

It was because of these Sundays with father that I first learned to appreciate the infinite beauty and variety of nature.

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Camp Greble

My first summer camping experiences were at Camp Greble, where I spent a week in 1940 and again in 1941. The camp was located somewhere in Lebanon County, and was run by the Lebanon YMCA. Several boys from Manheim went at the same time I did, so I was not among strangers.

The campground contained five or six cabins, each housing eight or ten boys and a counselor. There was also a dining or mess hall, a swimming area in the creek (this was before the days when we found out how dangerous creek water is), and a large outdoor assembly area complete with a flagpole and a small cannon. The counselor was usually a young person just eight to ten years older than the boys he "counseled." Our counselor in 1941 was very good at drawing nude female figures, which made him the most popular counselor in the camp.

The swimming area of the creek extended from the ten-foot deep section, where the diving board was located, to the shallow area, where the water was only three feet deep. In order to be allowed to swim in the deep area a boy had to swim from the diving board to the shallow area, a distance of approximately 100 yards. I made it, but I was glad when the ordeal was over.

The start of all camp activities was signaled by a bugle call, and so the camp day started about 7:00 with the sound of reveille, followed by a short ceremony which all boys were required to attend. The ceremony consisted of raising the flag, the Pledge of Allegiance, and the firing of the cannon. The cannon firing was performed by the "best" camper from cabin one the first day, cabin two the second day, etc.

Breakfast followed, and after breakfast there were nature hikes in the surrounding woods, swimming, and learning and practicing other camping skills. After lunch was quiet time, during which campers were encouraged to rest and read, practice crafts, or other quiet activities. The crafts consisted of fashioning the usual leather bracelets and lanyards, making Indian headdresses, and other normal camp style busy work. Afternoons were spent in swimming and boating, preparing skits for the evening campfire program, hiking, etc.

Of course, the highlight of the day was the campfire. Often a wire would be strung from a nearby tree, and an oil-soaked rag would be lighted and allowed to travel down the wire to ignite the campfire. This was a procedure carried to extremes some fifteen years later, when Walt Disney had Tinker Bell slide down a wire from the top of the Matterhorn.

With one exception the entertainment consisted of the usual corny skits that had been campfire staples for many years. The one exception was a young saxophone player from Lititz, who was really outstanding. He became my role model for several years after I took to playing the same instrument.

Things got very quiet after the campfire. Oh, we did the usual things such as short sheeting, and dipping a sleeping boy's hand in water in an attempt to make him wet the bed. (I don't recall that it ever worked, and I am convinced that that procedure was just a superstition.) But usually we were much too tired to do anything but sleep. If a couple of boys got to talking too much, the counselors would quiet them down.

Sometimes during the day we would take a long hike. On one occasion we found a picnic lunch waiting for us several miles from camp, and trucks to take us back. I believe we found out later that we had hiked about five miles. It seemed like more than that to us.

I had only one bad experience come out of Camp Greble. One of the counselors was from Litiz, and he got very friendly with a few of us. After camp he invited us to visit him at his home, and we had a very nice time in the afternoon. However, after dinner he wanted to show us how his new sun lamp worked. He wanted us to take off all our clothes in order to receive the full benefit. I felt a little uncomfortable, and when I told my parents about it, they would not let me visit him again. In retrospect, I think he probably liked to look at nude young boys, and had we gone back again, he would probably have pushed for something more. I am sure my parents made the right decision.

With the exception of that one instance, I have always had fond memories of the two weeks I spent at Camp Greble.

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Keeping Score

During the 1930s and into the early 1940s the Lebanon Valley Baseball League flourished in and around Manheim. This was a semi-pro, double A class league, and there were some quite talented players on the teams of Manheim, Pine Grove, Reinholds, Ephrata, and others. Throughout the summer the games were played every Saturday and Sunday. Players came via the train from as far away as Philadelphia to play for five dollars per game.

In 1940, just after I had moved off the farm, my father gave me a book on baseball, and one section of the book was devoted to an explanation of the scoring system. I spent quite a bit of time that summer sitting in front of the radio, listening to the broadcasts of the major league teams, and learning to keep score.

On the weekends I would join all the other fans at the home games of the Manheim team. I always tried to sit near the official scorekeeper to see how a professional operated. I discovered that the system I had learned was the same as the one he was using.

Eventually I struck up a friendship with him, and he allowed me to sit next to him and practice by keeping my own scorebook. He would check what I was doing, and make occasional suggestions or answer any questions I had.

One Saturday when I went to the ballpark, I discovered that he was too ill to attend the game. A quick check of the crowd indicated that I was the only one in attendance who had any knowledge of how to keep score. So I was willingly "drafted" into the job. There were, of course, some close plays where the scorekeeper had to decide "hit" or "error," etc., and my word was law!

The next morning my official record from the previous day's game appeared in the Lancaster newspaper along with the scores from all the other games in the league. I was rather proud of the job I had done.

I was eleven years old.

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The Autograph

I woke up on that summer day in 1940 to find that the weather was beautiful; clear, warm and perfect for baseball. The Lancaster Red Roses were scheduled to play their affiliated major league club that evening, and since I had never seen a big league club before, it was a very exciting event for an eleven year old.

The day seemed to drag on and on until it was time to leave for the game. Since we didn't have a car, my father arranged for us to ride with a friend in his brand new Packard touring car. This was the first time I had ever been in a new car, and this one was a real beauty, tan below with a black top, real leather seats and a long, long hood covering a huge engine.

The baseball field was about ten miles from our home, and even though we arrived an hour before the game the small parking lot was filled and we had to park on the street about two blocks away. Walking from the car to the park, I was so excited I skipped ahead and kept talking the entire time.

Although still warm, the weather had cooled slightly and there was not a cloud in the sky. The bleachers were really just green benches with no backs, and though they were hard on the fan's back and bottom, I never noticed the minor inconveniences.

When the big league club took the field for batting practice, the excitement went up another notch. A few of the players put on a home run hitting contest, and the crowd oh'd and ah'd at the long balls leaving the park as if they were watching a huge fireworks display. Soon a vendor came by, and the odor of the hot dogs, sauerkraut and mustard quickly got to me.

"May I have a hot dog, dad?" I asked.

"You just ate supper an hour ago," he replied.

"I know, but they smell so good."

I had forgotten that the great depression was still going on, and my father had just recently acquired his first permanent full time job in several years. During that time he had worked at whatever temporary jobs he could find, mostly on farms. Money was still not very plentiful in our family.

In spite of that he said, "Oh, OK," and pulled out a quarter for a hot dog and a soft drink to go with it. As much as I still enjoy an occasional hot dog, there is no taste like one bought at the ball park. Maybe it's the fresh air and the excitement that makes the difference, but the flavor and aroma are at least twice as good at a baseball game as anywhere else. As I bit into the dog, I couldn't imagine a more perfect situation.

Shortly after the game got under way my father pointed out an elderly gentleman sitting in the grandstand directly behind home plate. Even on that warm evening he was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, necktie and a fedora hat. He appeared to be quite elderly, and indeed I found out later he was almost eighty years old. I recognized him from his pictures as the manager of the big league club. Every now and then he would raise his rolled up score card and wiggle or wave it at the players in a secret baseball sign language which he had probably invented.

"Why don't you ask him for his autograph?" my father asked.

"I don't want to," I replied.

Then my father pulled out a surprise for me-a brand new baseball. I was used to playing with used and scuffed baseballs, and the pure white ball with the bright red stitching looked like a forbidden treasure to me.

"Take this over and ask him to sign it," he said.

I took the ball and the pen he handed me and started for the grandstand. I was very nervous; the palms of my hands were clammy and I could feel the sweat running down the inside of my shirt and knickers. When I reached the grandstand I stopped to muster my courage. After a few minutes I looked back at my dad, who just motioned me to go on.

Thinking that everyone was staring at me, which was probably true since no one else had approached him up until this time, I walked up to the great man. Taking off my cap I held out the ball and said, "Please sir, would you please sign my baseball?"

He looked at me as if he didn't understand me at first, then took the ball and pen and slowly signed his name. At this point every kid in the stands, and some who were no longer kids, rushed to get in line behind me with score cards, scraps of paper, and anything else that could be written on to get his autograph.

"Thank you," I said, and turned and ran back to my dad.

I couldn't believe I had done it, but there was his name shakily scratched on my new baseball-'Connie Mack.'

Who Was Connie Mack?¹

Connie Mack, Born Cornelius McGillicuddy in 1862 in Massachusetts, became a National League catcher in 1886. In 1894 he became player-manager for Pittsburgh. This was the first of a 56 year long career as a baseball manager.

In 1897 Mack became the manager of the Milwaukee team in the Western League, a minor circuit. In 1901 the league was converted into the American League, at which time Mack became manager and one quarter owner of the Philadelphia Athletics. He managed the team for 50 years, and eventually became sole owner of the team. In the first 14 years, the A's won six pennants and two close second-place finishes. In his first world series in 1905, Mack began a fierce rivalry with John McGraw, the manager of the New York Giants.

The Giants won the series, 4-1. Unbelievably all five games were shutouts. Christy Mathewson pitched three of them and ended with a 0.00 ERA. Since that time the series had been played every year until 1994.

The A's beat the Giants in 1911 and 1913, but in 1914 they were stunned by the Boston Braves who swept the series.

Thereafter Mack managed a succession of bad teams until he produced another set of winners in the late 1920s. The A's won the World Series in 1929 and 1930, but lost to St. Louis in 1931.

In addition to his extensive knowledge of baseball, Mack was known for his ability to handle his men with patience and tact. In spite of these traits, baseball historians today say his managerial career would not have lasted so long if he had not been part owner, and later sole owner of the Athletics.

Unlike other managers, Mack did not wear the team uniform while managing. He was always attired in a dark business suit, tie and hat. He communicated with his men in the field by waving his scorecard at them from the top of the dugout steps.

He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1937. He became sole owner of the Athletics in 1940, and gave the team to his three sons in 1946. He continued to manage, however, until 1950, when he retired at the age of 88.

i. "Who Was Connie Mack?" has been excerpted from an article by Lawrence Carrel, a New York writer. It was posted to the internet June 28, 1996.

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John Dunlap "Doc" Kendig

"You can always tell an elm tree by its vase-like shape." The speaker was John Dunlap "Doc" Kendig doing what he liked best-leading a group of Boy Scouts on a hike through the Furnace Hills north of Manheim. Doc could name every tree, flower and fern in Lancaster County, and tell you all about its preferred habitat.

After receiving a degree in forestry, Doc returned to spend the rest of his days in Manheim, but that was not the limit of his wanderings. From southern most Mt. Johnson island where the eagles nested, to dinosaur rock on the Pinch Hill road in the north, was Doc's territory. He probably tramped every major stand of woodland in the County.

When I was about fourteen years old, I developed an interest in wild flowers. After every field trip I would spend an evening in Doc's "work room," categorizing and pressing the flowers I had found. We pressed them between old "Life" magazines, and in a short time we had a pile of magazine and flower "sandwiches" four feet high. Doc always knew where and when to find the rarest flowers, from Jack In The Pulpit to Pink Ladies Slippers. While he could tell me all about them, he always encouraged me to look them up and read about them for myself.

For many years Doc wrote the "Around Town" column for the local weekly newspaper. When it became my job to write the Boy Scout news, Doc was ready with guidance. "You've got to get them wanting to read more. Don't say 'The Boy Scouts took a hike last Sunday.' Say something like 'As they left on a hike this past Sunday, little did the Scouts know the rare opportunity waiting for them in the Furnace Hills north of town.'" This was in reference to the day we flushed a rare and beautiful eight point buck, who took off through the forest with the white flag on the underside of his tail signaling danger to all the forest dwellers within range. Most of us had never seen a deer before.

His enthusiastic love of nature helped guide a whole generation of Manheim boys to an appreciation of the beauty to be found in their own back yard.

Now suffering from arthritis, Doc's legs are no longer able to carry him on his woodland adventures, but whenever I get back to Manheim and look him up, his eyes regain their old gleam as we discuss the places we've visited and the things we've done. No longer able to be my leader, teacher and mentor, he is my most honored friend.

Doc passed away on December 19, 2000, at the age of 89.

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The Boy Scouts

When I joined the Boy Scouts at the age of twelve, I expected that Scouting would be a fun filled adventure, and it was. As it turned out, it also became the setting for a great disappointment for me, as well as the first of several disappointments with which I presented my father.

After I had been in the Scouts for about a year our Scoutmaster had to move to another climate for health reasons, and I asked my father to take over the job. To my surprise and delight he accepted, and he remained in that position until 1951, five years after I had traded the Scouts for the Army.

By the time my father got involved, I was the leader of the Flying Eagle Patrol, and since we needed a patrol flag and some other equipment, we sought and received permission to take over the refreshment stand at the Manheim baseball field. For several weeks the eight of us in the patrol "manned" the stand, selling hot dogs, soft drinks, and candy bars. It was my first run at managing an operation, and at the time presented quite a challenge.

The new Scoutmaster arranged for the boys to take at least one field trip every month. We were almost always accompanied on these trips by our friend, John Kendig, and between the two of them the hikes into the nearby mountain range were always both fun and educational. It was during this period that I took over the writing of the scouting activities column for the local weekly newspaper.

In addition to the monthly excursions, we always spent a week at camp during the summer. For a few years we set up our tents at Spring Lake Park near Brickerville. Although it was located along a well traveled road, the park was surrounded by mountains which were ideal for the various hiking and other usual scouting activities. In addition, the park had a small swimming pool and a recreation hall. None of the facilities were heavily used by others, so it worked out perfectly.

One year, however, a Girl Scout troop from Lancaster decided to conduct a three day camp at the park at the same time as our annual summer camp. The boys suddenly became more interested in such un-scout-like activities as girl watching, flirting, and - horror of horrors - dancing to the music of the juke box in the rec hall!

The following year we moved our camp to a spot near Mount Gretna. The site had been abandoned by the Lebanon County Boy Scout Council, and it was isolated enough so that there was no danger of being invaded by a bunch of girls. Here we could concentrate on the important things of life, such as cooking over a campfire (the direct ancestor of barbecuing), hiking, nature study, etc. There was a small lake for swimming, and although we didn't have a boat, my father had obtained a surplus life raft from the Navy, and we had some great fun with it.

Fortunately the previous campers left the wooden platforms on which to pitch our tents, because the first night the heavens opened and the water poured down on us. During the night I reached down between the tent wall and the edge of the platform, and the water covered my hand up to the wrist. However, the next day dawned bright and clear, and everything dried out very quickly. It was a good camp, and we returned there the following year. I don't know what happened after that, because I was in the Army by that time.

I progressed steadily through the various Scout ranks. One of the requirements for becoming an Eagle Scout was to earn twenty-one merit badges. Although I could swim well enough to obtain the Swimming merit badge, the required Life Saving badge eluded me permanently. My father and I were very disappointed, and I have regretted ever since that I didn't try a little harder.

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The Day That Changed The World

The first Sunday in December was warm for the season. Our family had planned for it to be a special day, but little did we know just how special it would turn out to be.

We were having one of our occasional family gatherings at my Grandparents' farm. Since we got together only a few times a year, this would be a very exciting day. My parents and I didn't often get to see Uncle Ross and his family, Uncle Ralph, and Aunt Dorothy and her family (cousin Dale was only a toddler, a little over two years old).

As usual, Grandma had made far too much food, including a roast turkey and a baked ham, mashed potatoes and gravy, candied sweet potatoes, corn, peas, green beans, a sour salad (Grandpa always liked something sour with every meal), and pie and cake for dessert. The wonderful odors alone literally made my mouth water. As the saying goes, the table was groaning with all the food, and by the time the meal was finished, so was everyone at the table.

There was no running water in the house, but the kettle had been put on the coal stove before we sat down, and by the time the table was cleared, the water was hot, so Grandma set out the dish pan and the ladies quickly finished the cleaning up of the dishes, pots and pans. The men sat around talking and joking until my father turned to the radio sitting between the door to the summer kitchen , and the window overlooking the now dead looking flower garden.

The radio was one of the new floor models with not only AM (regular) broadcast bands, but also several short wave bands, through which we could listen, but not talk, to police and airline calls as well as amateur radio operators throughout the world. For some reason which was not too clearly understood at that time, these bands usually worked best at night, but on this day they were working very well during the daylight hours.

We had listened to some amateurs for only a few minutes when a lady's voice broke in very excitedly, saying, "Will you please get off the air! This is an emergency! The Japanese are attacking Pearl Harbor!"

As the grownups all gathered around, we quickly switched to the AM broadcasts in order to get the latest news. My father said, "This means we are at war."

Since I was only twelve years old, I didn't realize the gravity of the situation, although I knew something important was happening. The next day I listened to the radio as president Roosevelt addressed the Congress. I can still hear him say, "I shall ask the Congress to declah that a state of wah has existed between the United States of America and the Empire of Japan."

It was truly the day that changed the world!

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My First Great Disappointment

Since we didn't have Game Boys and Playstations on the farm, we had to amuse ourselves in other ways. Some of our favorite games were "Cowboys and Indians" or "Cowboys and Robbers," etc. Whenever we played cowboy games, if I was a cowboy, I had to be Buck Jones. He was probably the best known of the cowboy stars, and at one time reputedly received more fan mail per week than any other movie star.

By the time I was thirteen years old, I had outgrown cowboy games, but I still had a soft spot in my heart for old Buck, and I still went to see all his movies.

My first great disappointment happened when Buck was killed in a fire in 1942. In Boston! Not Arizona or Wyoming! And in the Coconut Grove Nightclub! It really shook me up. My hero, killed in a drinking and dancing place! It took me some time to get over it.

According to a popular legend, Buck could have escaped, but died trying to help others to escape. I have no doubt about it; it sounds like something my Buck would do.

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Danny Witmer

"Well now, let's move along here," seemed to be Danny Witmer's favorite phrase. He seemed to have a sixth sense which enabled him to find and break up any small groups gathered in the hallways.

He was a big man-all six feet and 300 pounds of him, and also a brilliant man. He could, and occasionally did, teach just about any class in the school. I remember the day he took over the Latin class when the regular teacher was sick, and he did a creditable job.

His subject was mathematics, and woe to the student whom Danny felt was not studying or was otherwise slacking. When Danny walked into class, that student was the first one called upon. Day after day Danny would prod him to get back to work. He hated unused intelligence.

He would start to write something on the blackboard with one hand, and when he had reached as far as he could, he would transfer the chalk to the other hand and continue writing, and no one could tell the difference.

In those days the school athletic teams depended upon teachers' and coaches' cars to get to their various events. Danny was always a driver, and was usually easy to get along with on those occasions. During the course of the game, if one athlete performed a good play, Danny would yell, "That's the way, Donald." If someone fouled up, he would yell, "Oh, what's the matter with you, Smith?"

In assigning seats for study hall, he would usually start at the end of the alphabet and work backwards to the beginning. The exceptions were students whom he felt were trouble makers-they always got assigned seats next to the teacher's desk.

One year a few of us who had previously been in his mathematics classes selected business math for the next year's schedule. Danny just crossed out business math and wrote in solid geometry, while muttering, "I guess these guys think they're funny."

Some students liked him, some hated him, but everyone respected him.

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Somewhere, Over The . . . Handlebars(?)

Manheim's water is supplied through a reservoir located at the top of a 300' hill on the north side of town. In 1942 the west and north sides of the hill were covered by an apple orchard and the east side had been planted in evergreen trees. It was a wonderful area for children to play all kinds of games such as cops and robbers, hide and seek, etc. A dirt road ran through the apple orchard from the street level to the top.

So it was one autumn Saturday morning that I was part of a group of boys who rode their bicycles up the hill to play. It was a nice day, and we ran all over the hill and around the reservoir for about two hours.

It was about noon when I started down the hill on my bicycle. I remember getting into a rut and trying vainly to get out. The next thing I knew, I woke up in my bed at home with a headache. I have absolutely no recollection of anything that happened between noon and 2:30 P.M.

My parents told me I had been thrown over the handlebars of my bicycle and landed on my head. When the other boys finally found my parents to tell them what had happened, quite a bit of time had passed, and even more time went by while they were trying to find someone with a car to pick me up and take me to the doctor. Add to that the time required to find a doctor who was home on Saturday afternoon, so I was unconscious for quite a long time without any treatment.

They told me I had thrown up in the car, and I was talking about seeing the big hole, and I don't know what else. I didn't remember having any dreams or anything else before I woke up at home. Since I was fortunate enough to land the way I did, there was no way I could suffer any permanent damage; I was up and about the next day. In fact, my most painful time happened exactly one week later.

The following Saturday night I was sitting at a soda fountain when I had to scratch an itch on the back of my hand. As I sat, I began to itch all over my body, so I hurried home. My parents were out, but I called them and told them about my problem. By that time I was covered with hives from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. Again the doctor was called. He advised keeping my entire body moist with baking soda water. By Monday I was fine, but it was a very uncomfortable weekend. I don't think you could have stuck me anywhere with a pin without hitting a hive.

It turns out the doctor had given me a shot of penicillin after my adventure on the previous Saturday. At that time penicillin was relatively new, and it was suspended in a solution of beeswax. Although I had never known it, I was allergic to beeswax.

Fortunately for me, the penicillin/beeswax solution was soon replaced by a better compound, and I have not had any allergic reactions since.

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Farm Work

Even though I was no longer living on the farm, I did some farm work during the summer. I soon discovered that the dirtier the job, the harder the work and the lower the pay.

I tried picking up potatoes. After the digging machine went down the rows and exposed the potatoes, we had to pick them up and put them into baskets. We were paid by the basket. I don't remember what the rate was but it doesn't matter, it wasn't enough. I believe I stuck with it for almost two days, which was pretty close to my average stay on these jobs. It was hot, hard and back-breaking, and the dusty dry soil seeped into every body cavity, including pores!

Picking tomatoes was somewhat similar, although the problem was not so much dust as juice from the plants and the overripe tomatoes. The sticky goop was almost impervious to soap and water. I was tempted to use Grandma's lye soap on my hands, but I just wanted to remove the dirt, not the skin. Two days was enough for that job.

In the 1930s and '40s the hybrid corn industry was going strong. When the corn plant is about 55 days old, the tassels form, and at about 60 days, the silk forms on the ears. In order to create a hybrid, the growers plant alternate rows of the two varieties they wish to crossbreed. During the five day window between the formation of the tassel and the silk, someone needs to go down the rows and pull the tassels of the female plant in order that they don't self-pollinate.

It doesn't sound too bad; at least it's not a back-breaker. But don't let it fool you. Corn has very stiff leaves with sharp edges. By the time the day was over, my hands, arms and face were covered with what looked and felt like paper cuts on steroids. For me the five day window closed after one day.

Transplanting tobacco was my last venture into farm work. The tobacco transplanting machine is basically a tank of water on two wheels. Close to the ground behind the tank are two seats where the planters sit, each one holding a box of six inch seedlings on his lap. Between the seats is a contraption which digs a small furrow, and a few inches behind that is a shoe which covers the furrow. As the machine is drawn across the field, a small quantity of water is released into the furrow at equally spaced intervals. Simultaneously a click is heard, at which time the planters alternate in sticking one of the plants into the furrow so that it gets a shot of water. Immediately afterward the roots are covered as the furrow closes.

It's a bit dirty, but the primary physical discomfort is cramping from the fixed position. Also the boxes of plants invariably leak, so that ones legs are soon wet from hips to knees. I lasted several days on that job.

I think that working on these jobs played a big part in my decision to become an accountant when I really had to make a living.

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Working During School

The first job I had was after school and part of the day on Saturdays at Heiges' Drug Store. I opened cartons, swept the store room, mowed the back lawn and whatever else needed doing. I was thirteen years old.

At fourteen I was shining shoes at Brock's News Agency on Friday and Saturday nights. Brock also had a newspaper delivery service, and it was my job to make the door to door collections on Saturday mornings.

At fifteen I worked as a presser at Jim Kuhn's Dry Cleaning. It was hot work, but to this day I am pretty good with an iron. Kuhn had no dry cleaning facilities in his shop, so it was sent to a service in Manheim township, about twelve miles away. When I reached sixteen and got my driver's license, I added daily runs to and from the dry cleaning plant to my other duties.

Soon after I was sixteen, however, I quit the pressing business and got another after school job from 4:00 to 9:00 at the U.S. Asbestos Division of Raybestos-Manhattan in Manheim. I had to stack clutch facings between metal plates for curing. The sandwiches of metal plate, clutch facing, etc. were placed on metal skids and rolled into large ovens in which the temperature reached 150 to 200 degrees. It was hot, heavy and dirty work, but what I learned about the factory operations came in very handy when I went to work in the cost accounting department several years later . Besides, the pay was good, at least relative to the pay at the dry cleaning plant, and it was almost impossible to spend money because of the time spent in work and school.

After I graduated from high school in June, I worked full time at the asbestos plant from 11:00 P.M. to 7:00 A.M. My job was to lay out newspapers on a pile, one sheet at a time, until the pile reached a depth of approximately 10 or 12 inches. Then taking about a quarter of an inch of papers at a time, I put them into a large punch press and punched out rings to make cheap clutch facings. The auto industry had not yet geared up for civilian production, and we had to make parts for the many, many old cars on the highway.

In mid August I decided to quit and enjoy myself before going into the Army.

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My Musical Beginning

Even though my mother had formally studied piano for only one year, she was a very good jazz pianist. She had that special talent which most of us envy: if you could sing it to her, she could play it, including the harmony. I learned later to set melodies to harmony, but it was not automatic like it was with her. With me it was a long drawn out, laborious process.

She always wanted me to play the saxophone, but she had the firm belief that regardless of the instrument one really wants to play, one should study the piano first. With the brass and woodwind instruments one learns a single melody line, but with the piano one also learns harmony and rhythm.

So in 1937 I started taking piano lessons from Mrs. Boyd, a teacher of classical piano in Manheim. Since I was still living in Sporting Hill, I went to Manheim for my after school lesson with Miss Becker, the teacher on the "Big Side," in her old Model T Ford.

In 1940 my parents found a home in Manheim, so I moved in with them. Now it was time to study my real interest, the saxophone. We found an ad for a used one in the newspaper, so my father asked a friend of his who played the instrument to go with us to make sure the advertised one was in good shape. It was, so for $35 I had a saxophone.

The next step was to arrange for lessons with Mr. Enck, the school band director. He was an excellent saxophone and clarinet player, and a very good teacher, but he was also a tyrant when it came to his band. You were either a musician or an athlete, but not both. If your athletics interfered with the band, you suddenly were no longer a musician. He was also a believer in plenty of practice, and woe be unto you if you showed up unprepared for a lesson.

Fortunately for me, I loved the instrument, although occasionally I didn't get all the practice I should have, and he let me know he was displeased. I soon found that I didn't have enough time to do justice to both instruments, so I stopped the piano lessons.

After a month or two of lessons, Mr. Enck put me in the junior band, which was composed of budding musicians with not much experience. Usually you spent a full year in the junior band, and graduated to the senior band at the beginning of the next school year. Of course, the object was to improve your playing to the point where you were promoted.

Near the end of the school year the senior band was scheduled to play in two Memorial Day Parades¹; one in Manheim in the morning and another in a neighboring town in the afternoon. The day before the holiday, Mr. Enck told me I would march in both parades, and gave me my uniform.

Never mind the fact that I had never played the music, or that we neophytes were busy enough trying to play the junior band music without having to march at the same time. Forget the fact that in both parades I played very few notes, and many of those were wrong. I had made it! I had arrived! I was IN THE BAND!!!

1. In those days Memorial Day, sometimes called Decoration Day, was celebrated on May 30th. regardless of what day of the week it fell on. In 1941 it was a Friday.

Glenn on Memorial Day, 1941 (20K)

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The High School Band

John Enck was an energetic little bantam rooster type man, and a tough task master when it came to his band. Rehearsals were held Monday evenings from 7:00 to 9:00, and Thursday mornings from 8:00 to 9:00. In addition, band members were required to have a one hour private lesson each week, and to practice one hour every day. Somehow he always seemed to know when you weren't getting enough practice. If your athletic interests interfered with the band, you had to make a choice.

In spite of his rigid routine, band members who liked music didn't seem to mind. Since those who were not dedicated didn't last long, he had an excellent band.

When he was called into the service in 1943, the band members got up very early in the morning and traveled by bus to surprise him. At 6:30 A.M. we lined up in formation outside his house and began playing marches. The surprise really worked. When he was ready to go the railroad station, we marched him there. It was a very rousing send off.

During his absence he was replaced by Miss Darnell. She was not the driver that John was, but she was a very good band director and teacher. When he returned to his job in 1945, the band was still very good.

By that time I had become interested in jazz, and I asked him about learning arranging and improvisation. He was not into that himself, but he arranged for me to take private lessons from Morrell Shields, who directed the high school band in a neighboring town, and also arranged music and played in a popular dance band around the area. I had about six or eight one hour lessons from him, during which he taught me a little harmony, and explained the general idea of improvisation. These lessons helped me tremendously when I got into the Army, but that's another story.

During the summer of 1945, we played a concert every Saturday night on a special platform on the square in Manheim, often after having marched in a parade somewhere during the day. John was a great believer in the idea of ending the concerts with something loud. His favorite number to play prior to closing with the "Star Spangled Banner" was the Sousa march "Stars and Stripes Forever." During the last chorus (the "be kind to your web footed friends" chorus), he lined up the entire brass section along the front of the stage and had them blast away. It was said they woke the dead in the cemetery a mile away on the other side of town, but I'm inclined to doubt that.

The highlight of my high school band career came at the annual spring concert in 1946 - my last one. He had me play a solo; a somewhat technical, classical style number. It was not particularly difficult, but it was written to make the musician sound better than he really was. Knowing of my interest in jazz, John found a band arrangement of a popular dance number for an encore. Then he told me I would be allowed to play whatever I wanted on the second chorus as long as I didn't get too wild. It was almost unheard of for him to schedule that kind of a number in a concert.

Although my father was not much of a music lover, and seldom went to any band concerts, he was always very supportive of both my mother and me in our musical endeavors. He had always said he would go the spring concert when I played a solo, so of course he had to go to that one. I could see him while I was playing, and even though he had been listening to me practice my numbers over and over for several weeks, his big grin told me that he was quite proud of me.

John Enck In 1943 (18K)

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The Flip Side¹ Of the High School Band

During my high school days the big dance bands were in vogue. Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Harry James, Benny Goodman, et al were household names. For a time I was a Harry James fan, but I never really got very excited about the other so called big names, although along with all the other teenagers, I attended the dances at Hershey Park Ballroom whenever they appeared there. The music at a dance I attended in 1946, however, was an order of magnitude more exciting to me than any live music I had ever heard previously.

There were a few of us in the High School Band who fell in love with jazz at an early age. Harry, Bud, and I would get together at one of our homes on Saturday nights, and listen to the latest jazz recordings, often until after midnight. While the others were listening to the big bands, we were listening to Louis Armstrong, Roy Eldridge, Lester Young, Coleman Hawkins, etc. Even by myself, I would often stay up late at night listening to their music, imagining what it was like to be able to play like that.

We would often gather at Fred's house to listen to, and discuss, various recordings by artists which I am sure most of my classmates had never heard of. Fred was a man of little talent, but he had a very talented daughter; Doris could sing, dance, twirl the baton, and above all, play the drums. Fred wanted to be part of show business through his daughter, so he paid for all kinds of lessons, music, equipment, anything that would get her on stage. He had the latest audio equipment with which to record and play her music. There were about four of us, including Doris, who immersed ourselves in jazz every time we had a chance.

We not only listened and talked, we made music together. We would record a number, then listen to the playback and dissect it together. When Harry went into the Army and was playing in a touring USO band during the war, we made a recording and sent it to him. We really enjoyed each other.

There was a ballroom in York which was called the "York Ballroom" when a white band appeared there, and "Chestnut Street Hall" when a black band appeared. Early in 1946 we heard that the Lionel Hampton band was appearing at Chestnut Street Hall, and we decided to attend. After we arrived, we found we were the only whites in attendance; contrary to popular expectations of the day, no one even seemed to notice.

We had listened to Hampton's recordings, but the audio equipment of that day in no way prepared us for the live performance. The band was loud and brassy, with screaming trumpets, wailing saxophones, and pounding drums. We four were right up front, leaning on the bandstand.

Hampton himself was a very hard working and exciting performer. He played drums and vibraphone with such enthusiasm and energy that the perspiration rolled off his forehead and onto his suit. He had to change his clothes every few intermissions.

He was a consummate showman. While playing drums, he would drop one of his sticks, then would continue drumming with his remaining stick on the floor, walls, music racks or whatever he found along the way as he went to recover the dropped stick. He would also stand beside the piano player and play along, using his index fingers on the piano the same way he used the mallets on the vibraphone.

The ballroom was on the second floor, and when several hundred dancers reacted in unison to the combination of primitive rhythms and sophisticated orchestrations, we could actually feel the floor moving up and down. Compared to this music, the other big bands sounded tepid and boring.

Today, 50+ years later, I can still vividly recall the excitement of that night.

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Red Flash

During World War II the government set up a nationwide network of aircraft spotter stations. Manned around the clock by civilian volunteers, the purpose of these stations was to detect and report all aircraft overflights in order to ensure that our enemies could not infiltrate our air space. Given the range of aircraft at that time, I am hard pressed to see how any German or Japanese planes could have reached Manheim, or even why they would have wanted to. In spite of this, the town was required to set up a spotter station at the top of the three hundred foot high reservoir hill north of town.

When any aircraft was detected within either the visual or auditory range of the station, the "spotter" was required to record such information as number of aircraft, distance from the station, direction of flight, etc., and then call to report the information to some unknown central tracking location.

In those days rotary telephones and direct lines had not yet been developed; all calls had to be placed through an operator. In order to eliminate potential mistakes in dealing with a telephone number, all that was required was for the spotter to tell the operator, "Army Flash", and the call was put through. This was the routine for all "normal" flights, such as commercial airliners, small planes, etc.

A second procedure was set up for "unusual" aircraft activity. In this case the spotter called "Red Flash", and that call went to a location set up to handle potentially threatening situations.

At the age of sixteen I volunteered to "man" the station, and was assigned to the 4:00 P.M. to 8:00 P.M. shift on Saturdays. It was rather boring duty; the only thing I had to do besides look and listen for aircraft was to keep the stove going on the cold winter days. But I felt I was doing something to aid the war effort.

One day, however, a large military plane suddenly swooped down over the low hill a half mile to the west, and proceeded to buzz the town square at an altitude of perhaps a hundred and fifty feet, after which it quickly gained altitude and disappeared to the south. The whole thing took maybe thirty seconds, certainly not enough time for me to even get the operator on the line. When she did answer, I quickly shouted "Red Flash", and then tried to describe what had happened so rapidly a minute or two previously. By that time the plane was already out of sight. I wish I would have a recording of what I said; I am not sure it made any sense. Since I was at a higher altitude than the plane, to say I was excited would be a gross understatement. I don't know what was done by the authorities in response to my call, since I never heard any more about it, nor did I perceive any defensive activity.

I found out sometime later that the pilot was a local service man who was on a routine flight through the area when he decided to give the home folks a little excitement. He certainly succeeded in my case.

In a social context twenty-five years later I mentioned the incident to him and told him how excited the spotter had been. He thought it was hilarious, and by that time I thought it was pretty funny myself, but I certainly didn't see anything funny about it when it happened.

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The Professional High School Musician

During the time I attended high school, I often played professionally in various small dance bands around Lancaster County.

Johnny S. was a so-so trombone player from Ephrata whose main claim to fame was saying, "Is that right?" as a response to almost any comment made to him. Before Harry F. went into the Army, he and Johnny and I, along with a drummer friend of Johnny's, played together fairly often for the Saturday night dances at the Ephrata Legion Home. Since these dances were very popular, word got around about the band. Johnny, however, was not too interested in playing other than in his home town, so Harry and I soon found ourselves getting calls to play with other little bands in the area.

One call which was very important to me in a non-musical sense was from "Howdy" B., a trumpet player whose greatest talent was talking people into hiring his band. Howdy had a habit of not hiring musicians to play the job until a day or two before the actual performance. This particular gig was to play a formal dance for the Daughters of the Eastern Star in the ballroom of the Hotel Brunswick in Lancaster, the premier hotel in the area. The reason the job was so important to me was because a young lady on whom I had a crush at the time would be at the dance. Also, it was the first formal affair at which I had played, so it was the first time I wore a tuxedo. The job went well, which is more than I can say for the relationship between the lady and me.

Without doubt Andy Kerner had the best dance band in the area. He also owned a record store in Lancaster, and I had begun to hang out there on Saturday afternoons. When the time came for my class to produce the senior prom, I insisted that we hire Andy's band. It was a little more expensive, but well worth it in my estimation. After the prom I think most of those who were there agreed with me.

My most exciting professional event came in the summer of 1946, just before I went into the Army. Andy called and asked me to fill in for Mr. Shields, my arranging and improvisation teacher, who played in Andy's band, for a dance at Maple Grove Ballroom just outside Lancaster. Although I certainly did not measure up to the usual level of talent in the band, being a part of that organization, even for just one night, was a wonderful finale to my high school days.

When I returned from the service, Andy had disappeared. Rumor had it that he had left his wife, who played piano in the band, and went to California. It must have been catching, because years later I also left my wife and moved to California.

Mothers, Hide Your Daughters (18K)

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My Athletic Prowess

I had to wait until my senior year in high school before receiving approval for any athletic accomplishment, although I did receive some other recognition along the way.

When I was about 12 years of age, Manheim High School did not participate in football, so my father and a few other men started the "Mighty Mites" team (which eventually became the Manheim Boys' Club) for boys 12 to 15 years old. There was a Lancaster County non-scholastic league at the time, which we entered.

I became the starting center, and I have been told I was a pretty good one. One day in a practice game I got my ankle twisted underneath me and received a rather bad sprain. After a few days on crutches, and several more days of soaking it in very hot Epsom salts water, I lost my enthusiasm for participant sports. Oh, I did some bowling, and later on I tried my hand at golf, but I was just not very athletic. I always felt that both my bowling and golf scores would improve dramatically if they could be traded for each other.

At one time I also tried my hand at junior varsity basketball, but that ended because I clearly misunderstood the concept of the intentional foul. The coach told us that if an opponent was driving for a sure shot, sometimes it would be a good idea to foul him and take a chance that he was not very good from the line. During the next game I saw an opportunity to foul a boy who was going in for a shot, so I put my hand in the middle of his back and shoved him...head first into the wall behind the basket. Then I got my first recognition; the crowd jumped to its collective feet and booed me. The coach pulled me from the game and told me I was a poor sport, and I was not going to play any more. I didn't understand why he was so upset-the poor boy was unconscious for only a few minutes.

So I became the student manager for the high school basketball team. That got me out of some study periods to polish balls, pack equipment for transport to the games, and a basketball letter when I graduated.

A good friend of mine, Charlie S., was an excellent high jumper, in fact, he won second place in the all county meet during our junior year. His jumping method consisted of a modified dive over the bar, and he regularly cleared 5'2" without much trouble. I used a method that was considered out of date even in 1946; the so-called scissors jump; I could sometimes clear 4'8" on a good day.

In our senior year, I had such a day during the intra-school track meet. I even cleared 4'9", and of course my friend sailed over easily. My first jump at 4'10" I missed, and so did Charlie. My second try I again missed, and so did Charlie, although I suspect he wasn't trying very hard since he was sure to clear it on the third jump. On my third try, I just grazed the bar; it bounced up and down for a few seconds, and stayed up. Much to everyone's surprise, including mine, I had cleared it. On Charlie's third jump, it looked like he cleared the bar by several inches, but apparently his trailing foot touched it. It also bounced up and down, and fell! I had won! I couldn't believe it until they handed me the blue ribbon!

In spite of my clearly obvious superiority over him, Charlie and I remained good friends. It was the only athletic triumph of my life.

The Mighty Mites In 1941 (39K)

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The Tyrant

Fern entered the study hall and walked straight to me. "Miss Bishop wants to see you," she whispered.

I looked up. "What for?"

She shrugged and left the room.

Miss Bishop was famous among students for her lectures to those who had strayed from what she considered the proper path. Through four years of high school I had managed to avoid them, but now with only five weeks until graduation, it looked like my luck had run out.

I mentally surveyed my transgressions. "What does she know about me? Did someone tell her that Larry and I occasionally walk to school through the alleys so we can sneak a cigarette? Was it that incident outside the girls' locker room? I was just passing by, and besides, they're supposed to keep those windows closed. Maybe she saw me staring at Miss Nissley's great boobs, but heck, everybody does that. Even the girls. Especially the flat chested ones."

She was grading papers when I entered her homeroom, and she barely glanced at me as she said, "Have a seat. I'll be with you shortly." Not a good beginning.

The only sounds were the turning of her papers and the buzzing of a fly. It was unusual to see a fly this early in May. When they were hatched before the weather was warm at night, they were usually very nervous, and this one was no exception. He flew rapidly and erratically, checking and rejecting many landing areas. The few he did accept he quickly rejected after he landed.

"I wish all I had to worry about was a late spring frost," I thought to myself.

Compared to me the fly appeared relatively calm. I mentally ticked off a whole menu of possible subjects for one of her lectures. Finally she finished the last paper and laid down her red pencil. Suddenly I was sure what the subject was. "I'll bet it's that remark I made about old school teachers at the last student assembly program. She certainly fits the category; she must be at least thirty-five, or maybe even forty."

"Glenn," she said, "I want you to give one of the valedictorian speeches at the graduation ceremony next month."

Senior Report Card (48K)

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Summer Of '46

After graduation in June, 1946, I worked the 11:00 P.M. to 7:00 A.M. shift at the U.S Asbestos Div. in Manheim for most of the summer. I knew that my life was going to change drastically in the fall, and since that particular shift made it easy to save money, I quit the job in mid August, and went to Atlantic City with three of my friends.

We had a wonderful time; the weather was beautiful although a bit hot, the water was warm but the breeze off the ocean kept the temperature bearable. Besides, we had never done anything like this before, so we would have enjoyed it under almost any conditions, except for rain. But rain it didn't, so we spent all the days on the beach. Although the bikini had not yet been invented, there were many interesting things to see, and we walked several miles in both directions along the beach. We got so sunburned that we could barely stand to wear a shirt (we had not yet learned the dangers of too much sun).

We also visited all the other attractions that the city had to offer; the Steel Pier with its famous diving horse, several ballrooms, and the entire boardwalk. This was long before the gambling industry took over the city, so there were no casinos.

One attraction we visited several times was the burlesque theater. The minimum age for entrance was 21 years, but we just thought "old" and marched in past the policeman in the lobby. I think he was only there to keep out people he thought were likely to make trouble, and four small town rubes didn't look all that dangerous.

On the way home at the end of the week, we stopped in Philadelphia to see the Duke Ellington band. As we took our seats in the balcony, one of my friends said very loudly, "Gee, look at all the niggers." Have you ever tried to look invisible? Three of us tried very hard that day, at the same time receiving the impression that every eye in the place was looking at us. We overreacted, of course, and nothing came of the incident. The band was wonderful!!

I realized that I would have some problems with my plans for September, specifically, I had slightly elevated blood pressure, and my eyes were terrible without glasses. I got medicine to bring the blood pressure down, and I visited a doctor who specialized in improving the eyesight. He told me to stop wearing glasses so that my eyes would learn to work harder. He also gave me some exercises which I practiced religiously.

Finally September 17 arrived-the big day. My friend and I reported to the recruiting officer at the Lancaster railroad station, and were sent from there by train to the New Cumberland induction center.

After taking a very simple test to make sure we could read, we were told we could sign up for whatever type of training and for any theater of operations to which we wanted to go. They told us, "We really need men in the glider corps," so that's what I signed up for. I also wanted to go to the European theater. Naturally I was assigned to train in the tank corps (I never heard another word about gliders). When I received my first orders after basic training, I was scheduled to go to Korea, but that's another story.

Then we were told to undress for our physical exams. There is something about the sight of 500 or 600 naked men running from room to room that defies description. You feel like you are being shown more than you'll ever need to know, and at the same time everybody knows everything there is to know about you.

I need not have worried about the blood pressure problem; the doctor took it and said, "140 - OK."

I also need not have worried about the eyes for a very different reason. I was standing in line awaiting my turn at the eye chart. As the man ahead of me prepared to read the chart, the examiner said to him, "Read the third line on the chart." When the man did so, the examiner said "OK, you passed." Since I was still wearing my glasses, I quickly memorized the third line on the chart. Then the examiner told me to remove my glasses (which were the only things I hadn't removed at that point), and read the third line on the chart. I passed with flying colors. I couldn't even have seen the chart without my glasses.

Finally the endless probing was finished, and we were allowed to get dressed. We entered another room, raised our right arms, and took the oath of allegiance. A door closed behind me. I was in the Army now.

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