Author: patcamerino

The summer began in its usual plodding manner. That was the reason I went back to Kent for the second half of the summer. I enjoyed staying in one of the second floor rooms in the DU house. Only a handful of brothers had come back for any sessions. I was fortunate two of them were Gindy and Laird, since I had a chance to know them better than I had during the past year. A third returning brother was Tony Vinceguerra, with whom my relationship was paradoxical. We had been in the same pledge class and never got along; I was constantly his put-down kid. He was only a year older, but he had been in the Marines before coming to Kent. It showed.

I spent a lot of time with Lucy Fell, my “big sister,” who had been pinned to Dick Owen, my “big brother” during my pledge-period. We drank many a Seven-Seven (Seagram Seven and Seven-Up) during hot summer evenings. We did not really “date” but we spent a lot of time just talking. I had decided that she was the kind of woman I would like to date – maybe even marry someday: intelligent, great conversationalist, good looking and had progressive attitudes I found to be compatible. I did meet Joan Born that summer; we “sort-of dated.” I don’t remember going out much in the evening, but we spent hours in the Captain Brady coffee shop each afternoon. I had plenty of free time – taking only three classes, one in education and another in adolescent psychology. I also learned to swim that summer, an athletic accomplishment I never thought I would obtain, although, I admit, learning to float without drowning was better than my attempts at getting across the pool, which I did, finally.

There wasn’t too much to do around the House, except play cards during the afternoons on the front porch, which received an occasional breeze. Back then, very little was air conditioned. Ceiling fans made places like the Capt Brady somewhat bearable. There were occasional movies in Akron; the local theater had little to offer with a minimal number of students in town.

I did not look forward to returning to Niles at the end of the summer session, but there would be only two weeks for me to endure it.

The only interesting event I had in Niles was when I went to observe classes at Niles McKinley for a day. This was to be the last year in which high school classes would be held there. A new building was to open next September and my old one would become another junior high school. I found Mr. Moritz’s first period biology class to be the usual disaster zone. The students were to observe an onion cell and green algae cells under a “bioscope” – not a real microscope but an early kind of movie film viewed individually in a box. I saw a situation I hoped not to experience in my own teaching future: a class in which no one paid any attention to a teacher who threatened but with no follow-up. Mr. Lamb’s physics class, in which his students were actually learning how to measure small items with micrometers and vernier calipers, was quiet and productive. I tried to determine whether the difference between the classes was because of the teachers, or the conditions associated with a required, freshman class versus an elective, senior one. It was more fun to observe Miss Campana’ s history class and remember how to translate Latin with “Birdie” Evans.

The most disturbing observations came during lunch at the downtown diner where I ate with four teachers I did not know well. The conversation, which avoided any references to classes or students, was acceptable enough. However, I was not thrilled with the observation that three of them consumed soup and hotdogs, while the physical education instructor-assistant coach, attired in a sharp sports jacket, greatly enjoyed his steak dinner. I wondered if, perhaps, I should become a coach instead of a chemistry teacher and how do jock straps compare with test tubes. But then I remembered that summer swimming class, the only HPE class I’d ever really conquered, and knew I had to stay with test tubes.

Uncle Bill Moransky, my favorite uncle, brought me back to Kent for the fall session of my Junior year. I enjoyed introducing him to those DU brothers who had also returned early. He and I were surprised when he finally realized that this was the Kappa Mu Kappa fraternity he had pledged when he went to Kent Normal for a year of college, some twenty years ago.

I shoved my stuff in one of the metal lockers in the common room; the storage space was much smaller than the one I had this summer when I had shared a quad. This school year I would sleep in the attic dormitory with at least a dozen other brothers. I managed to acquire the bed Dick Owen, my Big Brother, had used last year; it was in a corner, near the landing and would be relatively quiet, I hoped. Later I learned it was possible to sleep with a dozen snoring college guys surrounding you.

Once again, I led a group of Freshmen during their orientation week. It was fun showing them around the campus and getting them registered into classes. I did meet a new freshman, Joy Smith, whose behavior and attitude puzzled me. I wasn’t sure if she was insane or a nymphomaniac. We did date for a short time, and I learned she was merely insane. There was, however, a significant change in Frosh-week events: “dinks” (those silly yellow and blue caps) were no longer allowed and any semblance of “hazing,” no matter how mild, was a thing of the past.

Another major change was the appearance of the Captain Brady which had been redone during the short weeks between the end of summer session and the beginning of fall classes. It once had a warm, collegiate atmosphere with its worn, brown, wood booths with their scarred red tabletops. The dark environment was as traditional as Prentice Gage on the corner across the street from the Brady. The balcony walls were now a light brown and gray; the booths were chartreuse and tangerine. The tabletops were light blue. Some of my fraternity brothers said it looked like a setting for a Theta Chi Pork Barrel skit. Bob Oana, the President of ΘΧ, responded with the comment: “Wait ‘till the DU’s turn on their black light.” However, in a few months the new Brady was accepted as readily as had been the old one; it was, once more, the coffee shop for all of the Greeks at Kent. A year later, the Brady became the site where Karen and I met and the home for our major memories of college life together.

Having been a Freshman orientation leader, I had the chance to register early for an almost perfect schedule to begin my junior year. At 8:00 a.m. I had Quantitative (Chemical) Analysis followed by Hub time on Monday, Wednesday and Friday at 9:00 a.m. Then I had an advanced Education class at ten o’clock. Organic Chemistry completed the morning. Lunch at the House occurred at noon; more Hub-time followed at 1:00 p.m.; Scientific German at 2:00 p.m. Hub-sitting time resumed at three o’clock or I could use the hour for afternoon meetings or for study time in one of the campus libraries before returning to the House for dinner and nighttime textbook reading.

A major social event that fall was the DU “Prison Party.” The cellar walls had been hung with bed sheets outfitted with crape-paper bars. Mattresses from the attic dorm adorned the floors. Our dates were picked up in a patrol wagon, after being encased in sweatshirt straight-jackets.

Another social event, albeit on a different level, was the tea party for our new House Mother, Mrs. Brewer, that was held formally in the Student Union on campus – with real tea and fancy munchies. She replaced Mrs. Young who had been the DU House Mother for seven years. The role of a fraternity House Mother was to ensure that young men had a female model in their midst, one who encouraged appropriate manners, etiquette, behavior and speech. She resided in a private room with bath adjoining our Chapter Room. This location was an attempt to keep card playing in the Chapter Room under a somewhat controlled environment. The only problems occurred on those evenings when Mrs. Brewer was thought to have gone out for the evening but remained in her room, perhaps with a headache which became worse because we did not realize she was actually there when we reverted to being college guys. We’d hear about it the next evening when she joined the brotherhood for dinner and renewed control of table manners.

When did my relationship with Tony Vinciguerra begin? Probably the day we jointly pledged DU. That’s when we first met. However, I really did not get to know him very well. He was difficult to know. He had not participated in many of our pledge-class activities. He was a year older than I was, but the interval seemed much wider. He had served as a Marine and was probably stationed in Korea. He certainly thought that our college-oriented behavior was too childish for him. No doubt it was, if he had served in Korea. (Several other brothers had also been there, but they preferred to leave memories behind them as much as they could.)

During our pledging, Tony had expressed some annoyance with me, especially on our hunt for the Smith’s Corners cemetery. He declined to participate in any of the fraternal-building-events of pledging, primarily on the grounds that he had a sensitive stomach and would not be able to endure some of the actions he had heard about.

Our relationship had not improved during the previous summer when we lived together in the House while taking extra classes. We were both “loners” in our own, individual Italianesque ways. Our interaction became even more strained in early October of my junior year. The cause was a fight he had with Dick Owen, my big brother who had come back to Kent for a visit after his graduation.

Dick was trying to sleep on the couch on the first floor of the House. Tony, while working on something in the cellar, was listening to records. Dick went down and lowered the volume. Tony turned it up. Dick lowered it. Tony said Dick was drunk. Dick laughed at him. Tony attacked Dick and would have really beat him up, given their difference in size and strength, if one of the other brothers had not intervened. The current pledges were in the cellar with them and saw everything that happened. They became very disturbed and were about ready to de-pledge, for they wanted no part of a fraternity which demonstrated this kind of “brotherhood.” No doubt the incident would be discussed at the Chapter meeting to be held the following week. It did not occur.

Three days after Tony’s fight with Dick, Vinciguerra was hurt in an inter-fraternity football game against SAE. He had been hit hard during the game. He left the field and drove back to the House, parking on the lawn. He stumbled into the foyer where I was talking with a visitor. Tony looked green and white at the same time. He went into the Chapter Room and laid down on the couch. I asked him what was wrong. He only groaned. I called the Health Center and Tinker’s ambulance service. Tinker arrived first. They took Tony, who was screaming for his Mother and for St Mary, to the Health Center and then to the nearest hospital in Ravenna. The brothers weren’t sure if he was really hurt or not, since he had acted in a similar way when he wanted to escape a pledge event he didn’t like. At the time, I wrote in my journal: “You can never tell about Tony. He appears to be as strong as a young bull but is more fragile than a Spring flower.”

My entry for the following day, Friday, October 14, states: “They removed Tony’s kidney last night! Evidently he will be OK. When he comes back, there will probably be no mention of his attack on Owen. You never question the act of a martyr.”

The next morning, I left with two other brothers to drive to Ohio University for the weekend for their homecoming game with Kent State. The visit to the DU House in Athens was pleasant enough, but we left early on Sunday to return to Kent. My journal entry written that evening, Sunday, October 16, states: “Upon getting home we learned that Tony had been taken to Akron Hospital and was in critical condition. The doctors believe he had only one kidney and they removed it, thinking that he had another. A person can live on 1/4 of one kidney. He can’t live without any.”

My diary entry for Monday states: “After [Chapter] meeting tonight we said prayers for Tony. I guess that’s what a fraternity really means – brotherhood. Last week we were angry at Tony. Tonight, we pray for him. The pledges have no intention now of de-pledging. Life is strange. You can never tell what’s going to happen tomorrow. I suppose everyone realizes that sooner or later. But when the revelation comes, it is a shock.”

Meanwhile, college life went on. There were further notations in my journal about those who accepted bids to join the House. At Student Council I was appointed Parliamentarian for the body, when one of the other members resigned the position. Our Homecoming events were held. Our front yard display was supposed to have looked like a blue football; it didn’t; we called it “the blue abortion.” Martha Heinselman, a chemistry major, went with me to the Homecoming dance. At the time, I viewed her as a college version of Martha Smith from high school and had hopes that our relationship might blossom better than that with the first Martha. She agreed to go with me to the forthcoming Pumpkin Prom. Meanwhile, I took Lucy Fell to see a college play, “By the Skin of Our Teeth” which we both enjoyed. I would have enjoyed the evening even more if she weren’t pinned/engaged to Dick Owen. The Fall elections for Student Council were held; several fraternity brothers were elected. My term continued for the remainder of the academic year.

The routine, tranquil life of a college junior did not continue. My journal entry for Wednesday, October 26, 1955, read: “Anthony Vinciguerra died at Akron City Hospital at 3:35 a.m. Tony, the strong bull and the fragile flower. The young Adonis of the fair hair and sandy-splotch eyebrows – his fair skin still showing the tan of the summer’s beach and youth’s mad life. The fellow who liked to sleep in the nude and show off his manly form in contrast to others. Tony with an Italian donkey’s stubbornness, who was always right and could never be proven wrong. The boy who wanted more passion in his love and felt cheated, insulted, if it were not given. The lad who was disliked for his arrogance and revered for his industry. The man of passion and fervor in all his acts, whether of anger, love, or religious zeal. He’ll be mourned by some and soon forgotten. He, too, was a mortal, imperfect in his structure – the part over which he had no control. The supple young bull crushed by the flower. He who conquers by war is conquered by himself!”

The entry for Thursday read: “This evening Dan and I and several of the brothers went into Akron to view Tony’s body. But it wasn’t Tony. His blond hair was white and old. His skin was pale wax. As I knelt there at his bier, I didn’t see Tony; I saw my father. Maybe that’s why I never liked Tony; he was my father twenty years younger. Tony and I had never been friends, and now I could not mourn for him. I told Dan all this and he probably thinks I’m crazy. But, nevertheless. There it is. I saw my father dead tonight. And I did not mourn.”

My reflection for Friday concluded: “The brothers rose early today. About 95% made the journey into Akron to Tony’s funeral. The crowd was large; the procession of cars was long. In a Hollywood setting we marched before the casket and into the church. The funeral Mass was chanted. A fanatic shouting, high-squeaking priest delivered the sermon on “Why?” The setting was paradoxical, the events an antithesis. But we sat and stood and marched and waited as the coffin of the young bull was carried home.”

I began this memory with a question about when did my relationship with Tony begin? The question of when did it end has a more complex response. My relationship with him has really not ended.

In the months – and years – which followed his sudden death, I continued to think about him and to pray for him. At every Mass I attended for the next decade, I prayed for him when intentions were made for the repose of the soul of the deceased. The names of others were added and subtracted over the years, but Tony’s has been recalled even sixty years later. Thoughts and prayers about him have occurred more often than they have for almost anyone else I have known.

The only other person is probably my cousin, RoseMary, who was as beloved as any sister might have been. It’s strange thinking about the two of them in tandem. My affection, my love, for them has existed on opposite ends of the continuum of life. With RoseMary this is a result of what a relationship really is or was; with Tony it is what a relationship might have been.

I still have not really mourned the death of my father. Perhaps, I mourn Tony as a substitute, as a man I could never truly understand, but one I felt I should have known better.

What becomes of Vinciguerra, “The One who Conquers in Warfare?” Will I ever know? Perhaps, this will occur when “I have no more questions.”

Back in the mid-1950’s, campus politics had its trivial, fun-filled moments. Now college campuses seem to have more relevant topics to debate and act upon. Or maybe not. I find it strange that a current class syllabus must be annotated to indicate topics which must have a “trigger warning,” i.e., an indication that the class discussion may have ideas with which certain students might disagree, and, thus, can omit attending, because they may be offended by the instructor and by the information presented. There are also, now-a-days, “free speech zones” which are set aside for protests and conflicting testimonies. Students can no longer discuss political, social, or cultural topics except in these predetermine public areas. It’s possible that my involvement in the Macedonian Club proposal was a very early example of what has developed in the twenty-first century on college campuses, albeit on a much more trivial level.

In November 1955, a group of nine – or maybe fourteen – men wanted to establish a new club at Kent State, to be called the Macedonians. For the club to be able to meet on campus or use university resources, it had to be “recognized” (approved) by the Student Council. At the time, as Parliamentarian for the SC, I was part of the review process. I found their “constitution” to be “wanting” – literally, I could not get the SC to give me a copy to read, let alone accept.

The group’s leader, known officially as “Big Brother,” finally agreed to meet with the Council and offer information about its intended purposes. “1. To promote appreciation of the modern arts. 2. To criticize each other’s work. 3. As a social outlet.” and, as presented at the Council meeting: “4. To improve the ‘humdrum existence’ on campus.” The group, under its current Big Brother, had been organized the previous year with nine students and five non-students as honorary members, a condition not to the Council’s liking. The same student continued to act as Big Brother beyond the period given in one version of their constitution, an action the Council also did not like. Finally, the group accepted a replacement for Big Brother, Carl Oglesby, my former roommate. With Carl, another purpose for the group was now articulated: “Bear baiting, boar hunting and falconry.”

It became clear that the group was being formed, mainly, to bait the current “Greek” social system on campus. After all, the original Macedonians wanted to overpower the Greeks in ancient history, even though their leader, Alexander the Great, began the Hellenization of the Western world. Carl and his modern Bohemian friends were enjoying their current parody. Actually, I did, too.

The group was finally approved by the Student Council, once “bear baiting, boar hunting and falconry” were omitted from its constitutional purposes. These would have to wait until Creative Anachronism came along ten years later.

The KSU Macedonians never did coalesce into a formal group, but it did exist for a few weeks as an item in the Daily Kent Stater, the campus newspaper. Nevertheless, the guys continued to be acknowledged as the literati of the campus. I enjoyed having them as personal friends from time to time.

Other than Ogelsby, none of them remained in vogue artistically. As one of the founders of the Students for a Democratic Society, he became part of the movement which actually led to the days of student activism and liberalism of the 1960s and the counter movements of conservative students of today. Alexander the Great probably had no idea, either, of what results would come from his own Macedonians.

The current pledge class was much more creative when it came to rebellion and retaliation than mine had been during the previous academic year. Perhaps it was an indication that times were changing. Dinks and Freshman hazing had been eliminated; now pledges thought it would be fun to do to the Actives what had been done to them.

The Rebellion of the Pledges took place on the Wednesday before everyone was scheduled to leave for the Thanksgiving Long-Weekend. About 5:30 a.m., I heard someone run up the stairs to the attic dormitory. The pounding woke me in time for me to see the flash and hear the explosion of a starter gun behind our closed door. The culprit dashed down the steps. Several brothers and I jumped up to investigate but did not get very far.

The pledges had removed the handle to the door, and we couldn’t open it. The hinges with their removable pins were on the other side. One of the Actives climbed though the dorm window onto an outside porch and re-entered through a side door into the common room on the second floor. He quickly removed the hinges. We had escaped the dorm, but we couldn’t get down the second story corridor, for it was now blocked by our lockers which the pledges had manhandled into new positions. We soon discovered that the doors to the three, shared bedrooms on the second floor had been tied together; the brothers sleeping there had been imprisoned as much as we had been in the attic.

We soon discovered that the electricity and water had been turned off. The toilet seats were coated with green goop of an unknown composition. When we managed to descend to the first floor, we learned that they had inverted the front door, leaving a foot-high empty space at the bottom. Needless to say, no pledge showed up for any details for the rest of the day. Most of us would be leaving for our hometowns after the last class of the day. However, someone did fix the front door so it could be bolted over the holiday.

My journal entry for Thursday, November 24 reads: “Everyone went home last night, but I feel that my home is right here in Kent – that’s where I stayed for Thanksgiving. I didn’t give thanks, although here this year I have much to be thankful for. But to whom do you give thanks? In my present state of philosophical flux I can’t give thanks to God. Not really. In conformity, I had a Thanksgiving Dinner at the Robin Hood. I studied for the rest of the day.”

So, yes, there were many forms of “rebellion.” The pledges exhibited theirs in physical, and, ultimately, amusing ways. My own rebellion was more internalized; it lasted throughout my academic time at both Kent State and, later, Cornell.

On the following Wednesday, the Actives provided the pledge-class with its own banquet, which was not quite as enjoyable as any they had experienced the previous Thursday with their families. We almost did not have the event. Mrs. Brewer, our Housemother, had been scheduled to be on an extended Thanksgiving weekend, but we learned, shortly before the pledges were to gather in the basement for their dining displeasure, that she had not felt well and had remained in her first-floor room since Monday. A vote was taken of the individual members living in the House about whether the ordeal for the pledges should be held. Since the majority agreed to continue it, albeit as quietly as possible, the pledges were assembled and weathered their repast well. However, the event was loud enough that Mrs. Brewer voiced her displeasure at the next opportunity she had.

The following weeks passed without any more rebellions. Two weeks later I took the train from Kent into Niles for the Christmas holidays. This year there was no rebellion on the home-front. Perhaps, it was because my parents ignored the holiday, itself. The usual home decorations were omitted. Maybe it had been the smell of pine needles that had provoked my father in previous years. There was no exchange of presents. The usual boring dinner was held “up-the-hill” on Christmas eve. The next night, I did attend a party with my cousins where we played cards most of the evening. The following days passed quickly, and I once more began a new year at Kent – one without any more major rebellions.

January of 1956, midway during my junior year, began very quietly. The holiday season, in fact, was the first time there had been no family arguments. I might attribute the tranquility to the absence of the fragrance of pine needles. We had not put up the usual tree and had not exchanged any gifts, so “he” had nothing to complain about, and lacking any negative stimulus, peace reigned. I returned to Kent on January 2 in a more pleasant mood than I ever had previously.

The only problem I had was: “where am I going to live?”

Since I was carrying 21 academic hours that quarter, I believed I should not return to the fraternity House, having found it challenging to allocate time for study during the day or evening. Since I had not applied for either of the two on-campus dorms for men, I could not return to them for the remainder of my junior year. Most of the available places were really dumps, or too far from the campus, since I did not have a car or other transportation at hand. However, there was a place across from the training school, the city highschool used primarily as the site for in-depth training of those seeking a degree in the College of Education.

The house had been a large, private home on the top of one of the hills at the edge of campus. Mrs. Ward, the owner, said she was not sure she had a vacancy. But Jerry Jencik, one of my friendly Bohemians, who was an art major, lived there and overheard me talking with her. Jerry said he was supposed to have a scheduled roommate, but he might not show up and I would be welcomed as his replacement. I moved in with Jerry a few days later.

Actually, we were a good “fit.” As an art major he spent the days and evenings in the studios in Verner Hall, the art building. Our joint room provided private space for my own reading most days and early evenings. Our late-night discussions, together or with his friends, were very enjoyable. There were evenings when I wondered if I should continue to seek a degree in chemistry; I enjoyed literature, history and philosophy as much as, if not more than, my hours studying chemical reactions.

There was, however, one interesting “discovery” I made when I first moved into this rental house on East Summit. While transferring into storage some of the stuff left by a guy who had lived there last year, I found a ping-pong trophy which had been stolen from the DU House last year! I returned it to our trophy-case.

There was one other great “find” about living with Jerry, the artist. At the end of the school year, he gave me one of his paintings – an abstract female nude in earth tones of brown and orange. It was one of my favorite possessions and moved with me for many years. I have no recollection of when or where she disappeared, ultimately, from my life; but it was long after I was married and had lived in a variety of places.

Throughout my early academic years, I lived in a lot of diverse rooms and apartments. In my senior year I moved back to an on-campus men’s dormitory. This time it was Johnson Hall, the companion for Stopher where I had lived previously. I held the paid position of a dorm counselor with a private room of expanded size.

My first room when I lived in Ithaca, NY for graduate school was a modest room in a house on Harvard Street in College Town, the area immediately adjacent to the campus of Cornell University. After Karen and I were engaged, I moved to a three-room apartment in Cayuga Heights. We lived there for several months before moving to another basement apartment on West Shore Drive (Taughannock Blvd). Our last location was on Floral Avenue where we lived in two different apartments, again in the basement and then on the second floor. The lady in earth tones hung on the wall in each of them.

A lot of collegians went to Ft Lauderdale for Spring Break. The beach could be very enticing in mid-March. I never went. Instead, I journeyed, during my Junior year, with a trainload of Kent Staters for a school-sponsored tour of New York City. I was fascinated thinking about what was to be my first, real vacation. As with many adventures, the trip did not begin without its problems.

On Friday, March 16, 1956, the last day of the quarter, Kent was almost snowed in. I was sure many would find it difficult to get home for the break. After my last class, Laird drove me to the Erie Station to catch the train for the City.

I boarded at 5:30 p.m., after grabbing supper at Rocky’s and my packet of information from Mr. Wright, our KSU tour guide. However, the train didn’t pull out until 6:30 p.m. So, I sat and thought about what I might look forward to during the days ahead of me. My imagination fell short of the reality that came. A fellow by the name of Ed, who was no conversationalist, sat down beside me.

Once the train started, I began exploring. I found it interesting to pass from one swaying coach to another – this was my first, long train-trip. I met several people I knew. Then I joined some high school seniors who were mingled among students from the university. Evidently most college-aged students did, in fact, prefer Ft Lauderdale to time on Broadway. We played cards until about 9:30 p.m. when I went to the dining car for a drink – a Tom Collins is what one of the Kent students prescribed for me. When I returned to car # 5, most of the lights were out, except where I had been sitting. Here, they were singing songs. We sang until about one o’clock.

The seat I had occupied with Ed was now taken by a girl named Jeannie. Even with the seats in a reclined position, she said she couldn’t fall asleep. She claimed she had always slept on her stomach. I obliged by putting my legs across the seat opposite to me and a pillow on my lap. Somehow, she managed to get in a stomach-prone position on top of me. I tried to fall asleep but certain physiological conditions prevented it. Morning came as it had a habit of doing. I tried to wake up with splashes of water from the onboard restroom. It had been an unforgettable night.

We consumed a very bad-tasting breakfast as we crossed New Jersey. For some unknown reason, the train did not arrive at one of New York’s well-known destinations: Penn Station or Grand Central. Instead, we disembarked and transferred to a passenger ferry to the City. My first view was like a cinemascope picture. Maybe this is why we had not remained on the train, to allow us to view the City from across the river. Actually, the scene appeared to be unreal; in fact, my entire time in the City appeared unreal. I later observed this was true of most of New York’s attractions. I had seen all of them before in movies and this looked like just another one, with a camera slightly out of focus; the morning smog had its effect. Then we docked.

We were herded onto sightseeing buses and shown New York. We stopped in China Town and were exposed to the inside of a temple and a mission. The temple was dark and yet its ornate stage altars were bright. The whole effect was too theatrical to have been real.

We later stopped at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine which was magnificent. There was Riverside Drive, Grant’s Tomb, the Hayden Planetarium, Central Park, and all the rest of the tourist sights. We almost got caught in the St. Patrick’s Day parade. I did see the green center line of Fifth Avenue. After all, it was now March 17.

About noon, we were let out at the Hotel Piccadilly. Mine was room 821. But I didn’t take time to rest. I went out to see New York. First there was the necessity of eating. I looked into many fashionable places – including Jack Dempsey’s. At last, I decided on Roth’s.

But how could I explain my thoughts about standing at the corner of 45th and Broadway, at the center of Times Sq. Everything looked so tall and narrow, the buildings tall and the streets narrow. I soon became accustomed to the buildings and, later, hardly noticed their height. I looked forward to returning to Times Sq. by night.

After eating, I decided to try to line up some productions. I checked the time schedule for Cinerama and went to the St. James Theatre where I managed to get a matinee balcony seat for Pajama Game, my first Broadway musical, which, by the way, I discovered was a misnomer. Not a single one of the main, legitimate theaters was on Broadway. They were all on the side streets. Anyway, I liked Pajama Game.

I bought a ticket for Cinerama and went for a walk. I walked up the Avenue of the Americas, “old 6th Avenue,” to the Empire State Building. I passed dozens of small, tacky, tourist shops with merchandise piled in their windows; second-hand bookstores; and newspaper stands with gaudy offerings. The Empire State appeared to be only a few blocks away, but in New York, distance is deceiving. At last, I entered its marble halls. I purchased a ticket and busily chewing gum, popped my way to the Observation Deck. The screens prevented suicides, but this was one time I had no thoughts of suicide. I took the elevator to the top of the tower. The visibility was 25 miles. It’s almost indescribable.

In this place, I was at the highest man-made point on earth. The straight streets below were lines of toy structures. The buildings were too perfect to be real. When I went up, it was still light. But now it was dark. The canyon of Times Sq. was white hot. Yes, now I knew what canyons were. The buildings, which, from below, were so tall, were entirely insignificant now. I could even see the lower tip of the Island and in the other direction, the lake in Central Park.

Before leaving, I purchased a souvenir aerial view of New York City and a cigarette lighter. Then I rushed back to the Hotel to deposit my loot and go to the Warner Theater to see Cinerama Holiday, which, as far as I was concerned, was a flop. But I wouldn’t have known this, if I had not gone. The actuality of the Cinerama process did not live up to its expectations. {Added note: Cinerama was a very-wide screen, two-dimensional movie designed to give a 3-D perspective, because of “peripheral vision.” It didn’t work!}

It was about 11:30 p.m. when I got out, but Times Sq. was packed with people rushing out of theaters and celebrating St. Patrick’s Day. Everyone had a green top hat, a green bonnet, or a green tie over a green shamrocked something or other. It was a mad carnival. The Planters Peanut sign added to the madness as did all the lights of New York. I walked up and down Broadway, 5th Avenue, 6th Avenue, and the side streets which were not well lit. The buildings were large and good concealment for New York’s gangs, which never showed up. I made it back to the Piccadilly and left a call for an early wake-up.

Sunday morning, I went to Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. There were at least 3,000 in attendance, if not more. I was no good at estimating numbers of people; all my old yardsticks were now broken. It was snowing slightly. There had been some snow the night before, but most of it had been shoveled aside. This was only the beginning of the worst blizzard to hit New York City since 1947.

By Sunday evening, it was almost impossible to walk outside. That afternoon the group from Kent went by subway to Greenwich Village where we saw Candle Song in the Circle-in-the-Square, a small theater where you were never more than ten feet from the stage.

Along the way to and from the theater, I was introduced to Greenwich characters: two young men with beards who imitated Mr. Wright, our group leader. He was, indeed, quite a sight to behold and imitate – a man leading a herd of two hundred people along Times Sq. by blowing a whistle and holding his hat in the air. But not many stared. I guess New Yorkers were used to such oddities.

I was also introduced to the city beneath New York – the subway system, which was unique – with its channels and signs and strings of colored lights leading travelers to different areas.

Sunday evening, we went to the Latin Quarter. There I made sure I sat with Carol Mazzatenta, Mr. Wright’s secretary, who was by far the cutest, unattached girl in the tour. The food was good, and the floor show new to me. One young lady went swimming in a champaign glass without benefit of clothing. Most interesting.

Afterwards we went to see What’s My Line? Fred Allen usually appeared on the show, but that morning he had died of a heart attack. Nevertheless, the show went on. When the show was over, we went to a Penny Arcade on Broadway. Since the weather was so bad, small groups of us took cabs back to the Hotel and, thus, were exposed to that unique animal – the NYC cabdriver. Wow!

I was invited to a Texan party but was too worn out to go. At that time, I did not realize that Texans always partied wherever they went and seldom admitted to being “too worn out” to go to another party right now.

On Monday, I was up at 8:00 a.m. and ate a snack in the Piccadilly Coffee Shop. While in the City I suppose, I must have spent at least $5.00 for just coffee and donuts each time I snacked, especially in the Coffee Shop on Times Sq. The food wasn’t that expensive; it was the tips. “To Ensure Promptness” did not actually exist. However, it wasn’t proper to leave without contributing something. I couldn’t figure out why the waiters left about 30¢ in tips on the counter. So, I asked one. He said most of their living was derived from tips and downtown New York was for tourists who didn’t know whether or not to tip. The money showed that they should tip. He also gave me a story of how, in his youth, he had observed his father tipping the grocer. Thus, the practice was established. He had his children tip too, since they knew their father made his money that way. In the coffee shops I observed New Yorkers. I found their accents very amusing. Did everyone come from Brooklyn and the Bronx?

Following breakfast, our group walked through the snow to Radio City. The underground corridors and shops and agencies were a tourist’s Mecca. We were to see a production in the Music Hall about noon. First, I had to grab a bite to eat. I did it the way a rushing New Yorker does – at a stand-up lunch counter. Here I tried to order a goose-liver sandwich like the guy next to me was eating. When the counterman could not understand my request, I had to point, like a foreigner, to my fellow-consumer, for here, goose-liver is liverwurst!

Once we arrived at Radio City Music Hall we were herded into the lounge with its indirect low lights, statues, and admonishment: “no flash pictures, please.” Then into the extra-large hall. I wondered how many it seats it held. Here we saw the movie Picnic and the Rockettes. Now that was precision dancing! Even they use black-light; it was really an extra-large KSU-Pork Barrel production.

In the afternoon we toured the NBC television studios where I saw color television. Upon leaving the studio, I found the Californian Restaurant and took advantage of a postcard meal, one ordered with a postcard. Then I wandered around the City – stopping in bookstores which I found fascinating – and browsing at the newsstands that were always open. New York by now was loaded with snow. I returned for a short time to the Hotel.

The Booth Theater was across from the Hotel. I picked up a ticket for Time Limit with Arthur Kennedy. The seat, I learned, was in the second row, center. What a place to see a Broadway Play! Of course I enjoyed it.

Later I dashed back to NBC to see the Tonight Show. I got there too late to sit downstairs. Instead, I was ushered up to the fifth balcony where I would have needed to watch everything on the monitor. This would never do; my philosophy was to do everything I could do only here in the City and not to do anything I could do at home. So, I ducked out a side-door and proceeded downwards.

I felt as if I were reaching the bottom of Dante’s Inferno. At last, I arrived on the main floor. There I saw a vacant seat next to Mrs. Shoot, the ATO housemother! I took it until it was claimed by another man. I moved to the back of the small studio and stood. A young usher asked me if I was connected with the show. I said, “not exactly” and did not move. Finally, he put me in the last row which is reserved for the sponsors. The show was about Fred Allen. I almost fell asleep several times. When it ended, I walked back to the Hotel, once more, completely exhausted.

On Tuesday, my last day in New York – the Bagdad on the Hudson, Gotham, Metropolis, whatever you prefer, we were put on buses and taken to the United Nations Building for a tour. Our guide was a cute Russian girl who gave a coy smile with an answer of “yes” to my question: “Is this the Council chamber from which Gromyko walked out?”

Down in the shops I purchased some postcards and UN stamps. On the way back, some from our group stopped off at the department stores, but upon my return to the Hotel, I took a Fifth Avenue bus to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This was probably the most ridiculous thing I attempted – to tour the Metropolitan in two hours!

About six o’clock we were given our final instructions in the lower lounge, our rendezvous site each day. Then the girls I had met on the train wanted to go someplace famous for our last meal in New York. Two other guys from the train and I accompanied them to Sardi’s for a hilarious meal. Since we had no reservations, we were directed upstairs, but it was Sardi’s!

The headmaster inquired about cocktails. One of the girls wanted a screwdriver! The shocked waiter complied. I had a conservative daiquiri. The girls had not eaten all day. None of us had. Everyone promptly got dizzy and hot. One of the guys drank almost a pitcher of water – to dilute the alcohol, he claimed. We had a great time laughing. I wonder what the people around us thought. Then came the check – for $ 32.20. The real fun began as we tried to tally what each one had bought. I finally paid $5.70 and left a dollar tip as each of the other guys did. On our way out we peeked into the downstairs and left, each to go to a different play.

I had chosen Tennessee William’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof which was by far the best play I saw while in New York. It dealt with a triangle of an alcoholic hero, an unwanted heroine wife, and a possible homosexual friend. Afterwards I overheard one Brooklyn woman say to another, “My Mother is very intellectual, but I’m sure she wouldn’t enjoy it.”

I dashed into an Automat, bought some sandwiches, got some donuts from the coffee shop, grabbed my bags and giving Times Sq. one last look, boarded the bus. We left the Island through the Hudson Tunnel. Once boarding the train, everyone was tired enough not to sing, but to recall in their dreams the pleasures of New York. In these four days I spent $100.00 but every cent was worth it.

The long, journal entry about my mid-March tour of New York City was the last actual notation appearing in my journal for 1956, my Junior year at Kent State. I have no recollection of why I stopped writing in my diary. I may have devoted my time and energy directly toward what I was actually doing, rather than toward merely writing about what I was not doing. Throughout my life, my journal notes often occurred during periods when the days were routine – or when a specific event happened that I thought was worth “preserving.” Some half-century later I’m disappointed I stopped when I did. I have greatly enjoyed re-reading all of those notes and using them, in many instances, as the basis for my reflections.

Although they have been deleted from my memory-bank, the remaining months of the spring quarter surely were eventful, no doubt, even pleasant. The usual Campus Day with its all-night devotion of efforts toward the construction of a float must have occurred. Photos of the effort reveal a hillbilly scene of a log cabin and a mechanical drunken bear consuming moonshine from a jug. Several real-life fraternity brothers with shotguns peeked around the structure and had an interest in recovering what the bear had not yet imbibed. There has been a vague recollection that, having once more worked all night on the float, I napped before the Campus Day prom and did not wake up until it was too late to take my date to the dance. Surely, I apologized profusely to her the next day.

The months between my Junior and Senior years left no indelible memories, except one about corn-on-the-cob. Once again, boredom and the lack of a summer job at a time when it was difficult to find temporary employment in the steel-dominated economy of northeastern Ohio, led me to return to Kent for classes to complete my two undergraduate degrees in four years. I stayed in the men’s dorm rather than in the House or off-campus. A number of Korean War vet friends stayed there as well. One day they decided they wanted corn-on-the-cob and invited me to tag along. We bought what must have been a bushel of Ohio sweet corn, of which there is nothing more delicious. The guys had scrubbed out a metal wastebasket as much possible to use as a container. A small fire was carefully built in a field near the campus and in some manner the water-filled wastebasket was suspended above it. The yield was better than any mythical ambrosia could have been; its memory has been a sensory delight for more than six decades.

Since the remainder of 1956 was not recorded, the beginning of my academic year for 1956-57 had no documentation, but only a mental and emotional imprint in my mind and heart. It was the time when I met Karen, my beloved. She and I began our life together due, in great part, to my lack of memory for names!

Although I have been able to recall events, along with details about places and people, I have never been able to remember the names of the people I’ve met casually. This partial-amnesia has existed all of my life: it began in high-school and may be why I started maintaining a diary in the first place, an aid to help me remember the names of friends in my life.

We were in the Capt Brady coffee-shop for the usual gathering of members of Greek-letter fraternities and sororities at the beginning of the academic year. Lillian, who at the time dated my fraternity brother, Dan, introduced me to her very attractive sorority sister. The two of us spent several wonderful hours in deep, yet light-hearted, conversation. I saw her the following night when I entered the campus handout.

Unfortunately, I did not remember her name. Across a room crowded with mutual friends I shouted: “Hi, Stupid!” With some reluctance, she accepted the greeting. Lillian was greatly disturbed and said Karen was far from being “stupid.” I immediately agreed; saying if I had thought otherwise, I would never have used the reference. Now, fully armed with her name, we had another great conversational evening, repeated for more than the next sixty-some years.

It was possible to date without dating. Karen and I had this kind of relationship from September through December of 1956, the beginning of my senior year (and her junior year) at Kent State. It began by our having coffee in the Hub, the on-campus gathering place, almost every day. Most of the time there were multiple fraternity brothers and sorority sisters crowded around the same small table. My drink back then was usually a double-double: coffee with two small containers of cream and two spoonfuls of sugar. Early evenings we might find one another in the Capt Brady.

These really weren’t dates. Karen did not want to date me; she continued to date her ongoing boyfriend, David. I spent late evenings and weekends either studying or hanging out with fraternity brothers at Rocky’s. On rare occasions we might have a semi-date, under the rubric of an academic event such as the play Ondine, a student production of a French romance between Hans, a knight-errant and Ondine, a water-sprite. We went to a few early evening movies, one of which I recall vividly: White Squaw which contained every American Indian-Western cliche ever created. (If it were available today, it would be among the top ten cult films.) However, Karen remained unavailable in the evenings set aside for David.

That arrangement lasted until Christmas. Somehow, during the break for the holidays, I had the courage to write a letter to her. It was a long missive addressed, as usual, to “Hi Stupid.” The style was as strange and non-comprehensive as the greeting. I felt more comfortable writing to her in what might be viewed as a “dialog.” Many lines appeared in quotation marks indicating my words to her and her replies to me! Although the form was a dialog, I did include information about what I was doing and how I had spent a family Christmas long ago with my maternal relatives on the farm. All of this was a prelude to asking her to go to the DU winter formal on January 4. For all I knew, David was still in the picture, and I wanted to give her an opportunity to modify that picture, if she so chose.

She did. Two days later I received a response, written in the same style I had used, in which she, at the end of the letter, agreed to go with me to the dance. I had an extremely happy Christmas. The day afterwards, I responded to her response. That letter turned into a triad! In addition to the normal narrative found in any letter, I continued to create a dialog between the two of us when, suddenly, a third person began to speak with us: it was my alter ego! Over the following years, when I wrote to her while attending Cornell, our correspondence often included a dialog between the two of us as well as commentary from her superego, “Kitten,” and mine, “Fritz.”

Although it might be apparent how Karen and Kitten were related, my nick name of Fritz came from a more drawn-out reference. During the mid-fifties, crewcut haircuts and crewcut sweaters were popular. I was inclined toward both. One of my humorous fraternity brothers thought I should be called “Fritz, the U-boat Captain,” a designation that endured for some of my other friends. And so, I continued to have the unlikely designation of “Fritz” among an intimate group of friends.

These introductory letters also preserved the pleasure Karen and I found in atrocious puns. I had bought myself a Christmas present of a new record player and, thus, pedaled round-and-round about Debussy’s Fêtes and verbed swimmingly through La Mer. I had also purchased some Sinatra, Crew Cuts, and Belafonte albums to balance the classics. I still have the letters, an alternative for the lack of journal notes, as well as CDs made from the original thirty-three and one-third vinyls purchased more than a half-century ago.