Category: McKinley High

Modern technology, even if it wasn’t called that back in the fifties, came slowly into my house. My father saw no need for it. It wasn’t until January 1952, during my junior year in high school, that we acquired our own telephone! My father had no reason to communicate with anyone, except for an emergency, when he would ask Mrs. Andrews if he could use her phone.

There were, however, telephones available when we lived with his family “up-the-hill” or on my grandmother’s farm. Actually, the telephone on the farm had been of modest entertainment value for me. We had a party-line. Our phone was the classic “ring-two” variety. The entertainment value, of course, came from picking up the receiver, after hearing a “non-ring-two,” and quietly listening, making sure not to breathe loud enough to be heard by the true callers.

The telephone in our new residence in town had a semi-private line with Mrs. Andrews. I never listened to her calls! Our number, 1-9758, later OLympic 2-9758, was listed under my mother’s name, since my father still did not really want to be identified as owning one. I enjoyed calling others in my classes about homework assignments.

Television, the other major technology of the fifties, had been discovered by our relatives several years before my father found it. Occasionally, we would visit my uncles’ families (either Uncle Bill Moransky or Uncle Frank Borecki) and spend the evening watching TV with them.

However, the first television I saw, in person, was in the home of a professor at Kent State University when several of us high school sophomores went to the regional biology exams there. We stayed overnight and were housed by a faculty member who owned a two-square-inch television set! He invited us to watch it with his family. A flat magnifying glass was mounted in front of the tiny screen to allow all of us clustered nearby, very nearby, to view what was being telecast in fuzzy black and white images.

Development was rapid. My relatives all purchased stand-alone television sets with twelve-square-inch screens. We did not need to cluster as closely around the large piece of furniture housing the cathode ray tube and its fleet of tungsten tubes. It was not a great distance to walk from the chair to the set in order to change the channels receiving the signals from the local ABC, CBS or NBC stations. On the other hand, it was not easy for someone to twist the antenna to the correct position to minimize the fuzziness. Sometimes, one of the viewers would need to stand there and be part of the bunny ears.

My father finally allowed a TV set to enter our house during my senior year in high school. Our set was guarded by a ceramic black panther, crouched on top of the set, who concealed a dim light bulb, so we did not need to view the grey, washed-out images in complete darkness. In the late afternoons, my father watched baseball games, while he listened to the radio broadcast of what was being said about the plays he was viewing. Occasionally he might watch one game while listening to the radio broadcast of a different one.

My own tastes ran to such productions as: Lux Video Theatre, The Colgate Comedy Hour, Truth or Consequences, Red Skelton Show, Dragnet and Our Miss Brooks. I often stayed awake until the Indian chief appeared following the National Anthem. In the early years, his profile was seen about 10:00 p.m.; somewhat later, he arrived near midnight.

The third, new technology also came during my senior year, the window air-conditioner. The window frame in our dining room no longer housed a supplemental winter cooler for our icebox, which had been replaced by the year-round Frigidaire. Thus, the window-opening could now be used for the box that kept the downstairs of our house cool during the summer. On hot, humid nights in Ohio I had the choice of a damp breeze from an open window, while lying on a soft bed in my room, or a colder blast, while attempting to sleep on the hard floor downstairs. I also had to learn to doze off listening to the hum of the fan for the air-conditioner, a more consistent sound than that of an oscillating fan located on the second-floor landing that was intended to cool both bedrooms. Yes, modern technology gave me new options. I loved it.

Each Fall and Spring, a deep cleaning was called for throughout the entire house in which I grew up. The extent of the actions varied from season to season and year to year, depending upon the history of prior cleaning. Some actions might be delayed with an entire year or more in between. This was certainly true for wallpaper cleaning!

This significant cleaning event called for the purchase of new cans of the dough-like material that looked like, and to a certain extent, smelled like play-dough, that squishy solid used to form strange creatures and, when rolled flat, to copy comic strips from the Sunday newspaper.

Before it was used, wallpaper cleaner had the same pink color as playdough. Afterwards, it was a putrid gray, having been used to erase the grime from the walls in every room needing treatment. The hardened lumps were discarded at the end of the day.

Although cans of the cleaner had to be purchased annually, this expense was less than having to re-paper every few years, even if this practice was the full-time occupation for my grandfather, Luigi, and his eldest son, Joe. We could have purchased new wallpaper at cost. The labor, itself, was free, especially if my mother and father joined in the effort. When they did, I had the task of cleaning up the scrapes remaining from the cut rolls. This was a more limited role than when I was allowed to join the ritual of wallpaper cleaning. When I was very young, I could use a small wad for the lower part of the walls, being very careful not to leave streaks of leftover grime. For some reason, as an adolescent, I was seldom called upon to participate in the erasing.

Seasonal cleaning also included washing curtains. It was a recurring challenge to pin the wet curtains to the drying rack. Special care had to be taken to make sure that the cloth was stretched just right as it was tacked over the series of small pins surrounding the frame. A misjudgment required that the procedure be restarted from the point of the error. An ill-stretched, awkward appearing curtain was not acceptable for covering the cleanly washed window.

Another part of the seasonal event was removing every dish or knickknack from every cabinet, washing each item, and replacing it – often on new shelf-paper, unless it was the kind that was glued directly onto each shelf. Not all of the items were stored in permanent wooden cabinets affixed to the walls. There were a lot of stand-alone metal units which needed attention. Of course, there was also the weekly cleaning – dedicated to dusting and vacuuming floors with a Hoover that had a light on the front, no doubt so you could more readily see where the dirt was. For certain locations there were long tubes with a variety of attachable brushes in order to reach difficult places in corners and in the upholstered furniture filling the rooms.

Although not part of annual housecleaning, there was also the weekly, if not daily, use of the washing machine with its dangerous wringer for squeezing out excess water before hanging everything on lines – outside if the weather permitted, or from lines strung indoors. Washday could always be identified by the humid smell of drying laundry in the basement. Large items, like sheets or towels, might be ironed with a table-sized “mangler” – with its own even more dangerous revolving tubes through which the damp cloth was passed and steamed dried.

Kitchen appliances also required routine cleaning. Fortunately, unlike relatives who lived in the country and were not joined to a gas line and had to use kerosene stoves, ours was a modern gas one, using fuel piped into the house from a network of gas lines rather than directly from butane tanks. Although an electric range was too modern for us, we did have an electric refrigerator with a small, centralized compartment for ice-cube trays. There was no need for a freezer compartment, since frozen food was not common, although Bird’s Eye products could be found in grocery stores.

Not all appliances were large. There were toasters, for example, which opened in the front and back to reveal racks and heating coils for toasting bread. There was no timing-device; the user kept a wary eye on the process to make sure the finished product could be removed without being burned. Nevertheless, scraped toast was acceptable, especially with enough grape or apple jelly on top.

Another small appliance was the meat grinder that was attached by a screw device to a counter or tabletop. Decisions had to be made regarding the appropriate grid to be inserted to assure that the extruded meat would have the right consistency.

Although not part of the kitchen appliances, another small, electrical appliance needed constant attention. The radio. Actually, the radio tubes required attention. They always seemed to be burning out and needing to be replaced. Unless a variety of replacement tubes was kept in the back of a cupboard, a special trip to the hardware shop had to be made. Usually, several tubes were taken in for testing; it was not always possible to identify the burned out one merely by sight. Just because the glass was not black did not mean the tube was usable. Later it was equally difficult to determine which tube needed to be replaced in order to make the television set work.

In fact, when my father would become angry with my mother and me, his major counter action was to remove one of the TV tubes and hide it away until he had been appropriately appeased. We were never sure if the set was not working because of us or because a burned-out tube needed to be replaced. Whether or not wallpaper cleaner needed to be applied, was a much easier decision to make.

January 1952 began the second half of my junior year. Although I always kept expecting that the events of my life would improve, they really did not. My father still complained about my mother and me taking money from the cup which served as our home bank. We had no checking account; I’m not sure credit cards had been invented yet. Other families had arrangements for items to be placed on “lay-away,” until they were paid for and brought home. In our house, everything was truly “cash-and-carry.”

Our cash for daily use, primarily for the purchase of food, occasionally for clothing, was kept in a cup on the kitchen shelf. That January, like many before and afterwards, my father stormed that my mother or I had stolen his money from the cup. Since he did all of the grocery shopping, he knew when something was missing. Once more, he threatened to stop buying food for us. I’m not sure what the alternative might have been, but the words were emotionally abusive. Meanwhile, he saw fit to continue his gambling on weekends. It was usually cards, probably poker; he often lost several hundred dollars at a time. I never heard about his winning anything.

In my diary I continued to comment on my classes, especially my chemistry laboratory experiments and my reports, composed for my Latin class, on Roman life and culture. The orations of Cicero were the focus for this year’s translations. My love for things Roman began at an early age.

I continued to have a social life dependent upon transportation provided by a few friends, who, luckily, had cars for cruising Main Street and the avenues leading to Youngstown, where the new drive-ins were located. Weekend bake-sales were popular for ways to raise class funds for social activities; I had fun working at several sales throughout the year. My mother never contributed any products for these sales. She disliked any form of cooking; baking was at the bottom of her list. I attended the dances for the purpose of taking up tickets and observing the interactions of others.

My own romantic interests, actually “infatuation interests,” centered on Martha Smith, who was under the control of Don Castle, the guy she dated throughout high school and finally married – not happily from what I gathered, later, at high school reunions. I devoted many diary entries to recalling my conversations with her, as well as her (and my) arguments with Don. At the time, with my believing I had no chance of success, I could not understand any reason for his jealousy. Obviously, viewpoints were relative to personal perceptions.

My social participation continued to be that of a worker-bee. School-wide elections were held for students to run the city for a day. I served as the master-of-ceremony to organize the event and coordinate the gatherings for the election campaign speeches. I was disturbed, however, when several of my friends disrupted the procedure by tossing free bubble gum to the audience.

I had helped a close friend develop his own campaign speech to be elected mayor and was greatly annoyed when he disregarded our final form for an ad lib appeal for sympathy. He lost. The guy elected mayor was another close friend, an older student, who was also an amateur boxer. Anyway, I enjoyed being part of the political process.

I kept wishing events in my own life would improve, somewhat magically, I now recognize. I was busy with classes I enjoyed. I had friends whom I helped. I did not believe I, myself, needed “help,” but did desire “approval” and the “popularity” others seemed to have without much effort.

There were days when I walked across the bridge over Mosquito Creek, on my way to school, and wondered if I should make a sharp detour over the railing, but I quickly realized suicide was an unforgivable sin and no doubt my life would get better in the future. My senior year would improve, somehow. And then there would be college, somehow. My future did not depend upon what a kitchen cup might provide. A scholarship to Kent State would help. All I needed to do was keep doing what I’d always done.

Each spring there was an announcement of the junior-class boys who had been chosen to represent the city high school in the events of Buckeye Boys’ State. This year, the BBS would meet for a week at Camp Perry near Port Clinton, Ohio. The five selected by the local American Legion to represent Niles McKinley High School included: Scott Garrett, son of leading educator; Bob Wick, son of newspaper editor; Bill Trimber, son of City auditor; Dick Rader, son of American Legion officer; Bob Billig, son of councilman and industrialist; and Frank Mills, son of another leading industrialist. Dick Rashilla and Al Salerno, who were part of the same popular group of juniors, were conspicuously absent from the list. I, too, was not among the representatives for the “honor” of learning, first-hand, about state government. As “Rash” said to me: “We’re nothing but two little Dagos from the wrong side of the tracks.”

Martha Smith, who worked on the Niles High Crier, the school newspaper, heard this viewpoint indirectly confirmed by our Principal, Mr. Sharp, when she interviewed him about Buckeye Boys’ State. He maintained he had nothing to do with the decision made by the American Legion. I should not have been surprised.

Niles was home for three major ethnic groups: Italians, Irish and WASPs. The Italian Catholics of Mt. Carmel and the Irish Catholics of St. Stephen counterbalance the WASPs. I had not really appreciated the existence of the groups before my experience with BBS. During the school day and among fellow students, no ethnic distinctions were evident. My personal realization of such differences came from adults in the community in a strange way.

I was frequently surprised by the response I received when I was being introduced to an adult hearing my last name, for the first time. “Camerino? But you don’t look Italian.” I often felt they thought I was trying to deceive them in some way. This was not like the case with the two football players who were the only black students in Niles. They did not depend upon any deception to cover up our distinctions.

My only response to the statements given by these adults was one which I later thought was really insufficient, but I could never think of a better one, no matter how hard and often I tried. My usual reply was: “And neither does Wish-Bone Dressing.”

I still don’t have a rebuttal to the comment about my ethnicity, identified by name but not by appearance. At least the reaction people had was not as demonstrative as the one my mother experienced in high school. When the KKK learned, in the early 1900’s, that she was a Polish Catholic, they tried to throw her out the school window, at least that’s what family legend says. The Wikipedia entry for Niles confirms the stories of the religious riots led by the nativists that occurred there following the First World War.

However, politics have changed. My cousin, Fremont Camerino, served for 34 years as the President of the Niles City Council, and Mayor. Thirty-year intervals may allow for cultural and political changes. Wish-Bone Dressing may, indeed, be more than just Italian.

The classes I took during my Senior year continued in the classical, college-bound tradition. I had a newly assigned homeroom, the place where the day began and ended, where announcements were received over the intercom system to inform us about the day’s schedule of events.

Trigonometry represented the mathematical offering for the Senior year, as interpreted by dear, cranky Miss Galster. Actually, she did mellow during the year; I finally received an “A.” This was, after all, to be her final year of teaching.

Miss Evans continued to have us translate Virgil’s Aeneid and learn about Roman culture. My ponies were still greatly welcomed by others in the class.

Mr. Lamb taught Physics and I managed to become his star pupil. The class, except for Scott, saw no problem in my grading the quizzes he popped and helping them understand the correct answers.

A new class was “Driving,” with Mr. Davis as the instructor. Strangely, there were only three boys and about thirty girls in the class. Apparently, boys learned earlier from their fathers. For me, it was a case of “hope-for-the-distant-future,” since my father did not own a car and there was no likelihood he would ever buy one.

Public Speaking, the substitute for English, was again led by Mr. Bond who placed me on the varsity-team of four for weekend competition in interscholastic debates. For extra credit, I gave not only the morning student announcements on the school-wide intercom system, but also, the play-by-play summaries at home football games. That too was fun, even when the on-off button didn’t work on the microphone and a handkerchief was used to block, one hoped, the lively comments of Dick Rader, the fellow-student who served as spotter and relayed to me what was happening on the field. If he could have been heard, his color-commentary would have proven to be highly interesting but un-broadcastable.

From time to time there were special assemblies. One I mentioned in my diary entry for October 16, 1952, was with a Lieutenant from the Naval Reserve in Warren: “He pointed out the advantages of signing up with the Reserve. It might be a good deal, but not for me. I intend on waiting until they draft me and hope I don’t come out too bad. I have to serve at some time or another. Hell, is life worth anything in this day and age? You work in school and college to get an education. Then you go out on the battlefield and get killed. Why spend all that time studying? Why do we have wars anyway? Why can’t we live in peace? Someday I’ll see to it that we do. The adults of today and yesterday made a mess out of everything. It looks as if it’s up to us to straighten it out. That is, if we are still alive about twenty years from now. Anyway I hardly think we can make a worse mess of it.”

Feelings really don’t change, do they? Adolescents wanted to change the world, but we failed, as have the many generations before us, and, no doubt, as will all those who will come forth in this third millennium.

At least we didn’t have to be fearful of high school shootings.

Some of my reflections have been based upon recollections stimulated by entries from my diary for the year 1952. Here I’ve transcribed a few direct statements from this source, with minimal editing. At least they give an idea of how I felt and wrote some 70 years ago.

Wednesday, December 24: Tonight was Christmas Eve and as usual we had to go “up-the-hill.” Mom and I had a boring time listening to them gab in Italian. To pass away the time, we played Canasta and then Fish. Mom gave me a radio-clock for Christmas, but what a way to present it. As I was getting into bed, she decided to plug it in. Half the enjoyment of receiving a gift is the manner in which it’s given. Christmas gifts should be wrapped and put under the tree on Christmas Eve and opened on Christmas morning.

Thursday, December 25: What a Christmas Day this was. I spent the day in my room learning Russian and studying English literature. [I had bought a Berlitz book on Russian, having decided I wanted to learn Russian on my own. The extra work on English literature was to make up for the deficiency due to taking Public Speaking in place of formal English.] What a way to celebrate a holiday. I think the ideal way would be – on Christmas Eve to sit around the tree as a family and sing carols. On Christmas morning after Church, should come breakfast and then opening of Christmas presents. Christmas should be a time of love, but around here it is far from that. Of course to “him” Christmas is a time to fill up his stomach on Christmas cookies. He has been yelling because she didn’t bake. But why should Mom bake when he throws stuff around?

Tuesday, December 30: Again, I was a scholastic hermit today, since I spent the day in my room studying and listening to the radio. Of course, he’s at it again. Yes, he’s on another financial warpath. Why is it he always gets hot at this time of the year? It seems that every year around January first, he blows up about approximately the same thing. I guess I will never learn to understand him. I only hope that I shall never become like him. One reason why I am keeping this chronicle is, if in the future I ever tend to become like him, I can re-read this and return to humanity. So, the main reason is to read this book and become a better father to my son or daughter, for I don’t want “shem” (sic) to hate me as I hate my father.

Wednesday, December 31: And so ends the year of 1,952, Anno Domini; the year 5,712-13 for the Jews; 1,372-73 for the followers of the Prophet Mohamed; 2,612 in the Japanese era; and 2,705 years after the founding of the City of Rome. At times it has been a boring year, at others to be an interesting one. Still it’s one which I would not care to relive. Life is but a long row of rooms in the house of time. We enter a new room each year, never to go back and unable to look ahead. Each room contains both joys and sorrows which we examine upon our one-way journey. Others travel through different rows of rooms but, in this maze, the room paths often intersect. Thus, we share the joys and sorrows left by Fate when she built these walls of life in the house of time.

Not everything I tried to initiate at Niles McKinley was accepted. That was certainly the case with my venture into music.

The Ductorian Society, the group of student leaders that had been established in my Junior year, thought something new should be done with the morning announcements made over the public address system used throughout the high school. Surely music accompanying the morning proclamations about what was to occur throughout the academic day would help improve the school atmosphere, so long as it wasn’t “jazz.”

A friend of mine, Dick Rashilla, “Rash,” who had a collection of classical music records, said he would help me prepare for the daily events. Principal Sharp agreed we could broadcast “soothing melodies” for listening by students over the loudspeaker system. I was to be the equivalent of a D.J., although the term was not prevalent in the mid-fifties, and read the announcements which Mr. Sharp or his secretary had previously written. I could also give ad lib comments and earn credits in my public speaking class for ex temp events.

On Monday morning, Rash gave me a classical record he thought the kids would enjoy. The band I was to play came from Grofee’s Grand Canyon Suite; it was labeled “On the Trail.” I knew nothing about classical music. I was a little surprised when the sounds coming out of the classroom speakers were those of the Philip Morris cigarette commercial. The teachers ran from their classrooms and into the hallways faster than answering a call from Johnny, the bellboy. They marched on the Principal’s office to see what was happening. I promised we would offer less- exciting selections in the future.

On Tuesday, Rash provided me with music from Victor Herbert. The students said it was too slow and the teachers claimed it was still too noisy for the beginning of the day. Two days later, everything went wrong. The music was too loud in some rooms and too low in others. The announcements were too low to hear and nobody appreciated a tape-recording I had made of the Steno Club doing its own version of the typewriter song.

Over the next several days, I spoke with all of the teachers and learned that none of them liked the idea of music coupled with the necessary daily announcements. Meanwhile, the Ductorian Society discussed whether the series should be continued. The group wanted to restart the effort, which had been postponed while it was being reconsidered. However, Mr. Bassett, our faculty advisor and the head basketball coach, said the program must be discontinued. And it was.

In addition to the teachers who wanted the day to begin quietly, the only student who loudly was in agreement with the decision to terminate the music was my friend and rival, Scott. He continued to take great pleasure every time I failed at anything and made sure I knew just how badly I had failed. I guess not everyone was pleased about what happened in “River City” either.

A student, especially one who is interested in “getting ahead,” wants to get along with the school principal. I tried to do this with Mr. Sharp, but not always successfully. The “music fiasco” was one incident. There were others.

“Youth Day” was one such incident. Every spring, all of the students elected fellow students to run the city for a day. The program was designed for us to experience how government works. Once again, I was to be the student organizer for the event.

My new problem for my Senior year began when Mr. Evans, my instructor in driving and one of the social studies teachers, gave me a lift one cold, January morning, although he usually passed me by on others. He needed to tell me about a change in the program at the direction of Principal Sharp. This year in order to be eligible to run for an elected city office, a student had to attend one of the bimonthly meetings of City Council before the March elections. Their observations were to give them some idea of what the town government was doing. There would also be two, special, daytime social study classes in February with the mayor, several council members, one of the city judges and the city solicitor giving brief presentations. The new requirements sounded reasonable, and I agreed to make a brief announcement in each social science class so that all of the students would know about the changes.

In late March, Miss Campana, my history teacher, learned that one of her pet students, Ron Nolder, had failed to attend any of the Council meetings and was ineligible to run. She told all of her classes that the rule was too strict and blamed me, as chairman of the Youth Day committee, for its implementation. She wanted me to declare that Ron should be eligible to run. I failed to convince her that if he, and others, could find time to devote to nightly gatherings at the Grill, the local hamburger-coffee hangout, they should have been able to get to one the meetings Mr. Sharp required. Her response, as related to me by those in her classes, was that no student was going to tell her what should be done in school. Although the rules were not modified, Ron did undertake a write-in ballot for his election; he failed.

The second incident was more directly involved with Mr. Sharp. On the same day that Miss Campana was telling her classes about my overly strict views, I was summoned into the Principal’s office, not to discuss the election, but rather, to be informed that the National Forensic League dinner at the close of the year could not be held at Café 422. He had learned of this venue when he was reviewing the Hi-Crier, the student newspaper, prior to its publication. Café 422 served alcohol and was off limits as a place for a banquet for a school program. I pointed out that all of the restaurants along highway 422 into Youngstown served alcohol at a separate bar and asked him for an alternative. After deep thought, he proposed Ma Perkins (where the food was considered by many to be inferior) or the Christian Parish House (which no one used) or, perhaps, the Masonic Temple (which really surprised me as being a non-alcoholic venue.)

He was adamant about the alcohol prohibition. As it turned out, we did have the NFL dinner at a place called Ali Bab. We were charged for 63 steak dinners, although only 60 people from our group ate there. Since all of the others had left, I had to pay the difference for the three extra steaks. It cost me a total of $7.00, which amounts to about $2.50 a steak or one-tenth of the price in current dollars!

Yes, there are costs associated with following principles or pleasing principals.

Memories, call them a memoir if you want, do differ from notes in a diary or journal. I happened upon a few notes for 1953 that might be of interest.

Monday, January 12: [Often I would include a comment on the proverb-of-the-day, which was printed on the top of each page of the diary I used. Sometimes I began with a notation about a current-event-of-the-day. The one written for today was, “Twenty-four are made Cardinals by Pope at Consistory” The Pope would have been Pius XII.] This afternoon several seniors took a preliminary scholarship test like the one we have to take the last day of January in Warren. On the whole, this test was easier; I think I knew more of the English literature than in the last one. The math section was harder. During the course of the test, I could have strangled Lamb, my physics teacher (who was monitoring the exam.) He did not have time to eat and so he ate while we were taking the test. And what was he eating? Carrots! I doubt if there is anything more distracting than, in a silent room, to hear snap, crunch, munch, munch, munch. I hope he enjoyed them.

Tuesday, January 20: [“Eisenhower takes oath to become 34th President of the United States.”] We got out as usual at 11:30 a.m., but today we did not have to be back until two o’clock. Therefore, I was able to watch the Inauguration on television. It was a very impressive sight. Dwight David Eisenhower looked quite grim before he took office, as if he was well aware of his new responsibility. But afterwards came the old Ike smile. Mr. Truman, however, seemed quite pleased with the whole proceedings. I wanted to watch the parade but I had to go back to school. This evening I watched the Inaugural Ball for a few minutes. I wonder how I will feel when I become President?

Saturday, January 31: Like today’s German Proverb [The art of silence is as great as that of speech] – today I was silent. However, I doubt if I was great. All events were held at Cathedral Latin but I did not go. [This was a reference to the NFL competitions held every Saturday.] Instead I racked my brains over a scholarship test at Warren G. Harding. It was twice as hard as the ‘48 and ‘50 preliminary tests here in Niles. Half of the literature I never heard, the history was all American history and modern stuff – after 1940, the algebra killed me, the science was mainly biology and the directions for reading, comprehension were worse than the test. The only compensation was I got to talk to Bill Pennell and Don Seaborn. [These were close friends from Mineral Ridge.] Don is still set on Ohio State – I can’t change him to Kent. This evening I saw the Dragons chew up Boardman 88 – 44 to set a new high scoring record. Pat Eschnoz and Janice McGown, who took Norm and my place in debate, lost all three rounds, but they came up against Massillon and Cincinnati! I’m glad Norm and I didn’t go!

Saturday, March 14: Today I went to Youngstown to see a three-dimensional picture called Bwana Devil with Nigel Bruce and Barbara Britton. The plot was lousy but it was very interesting to see things in three dimensions. You never notice regular movies to be two-dimensional until you see three dimensions. If this is true, perhaps there really is a “visible” fourth dimension, only we don’t have the right stereoscopic glasses to see it. Perhaps right now, a fourth dimensional character is looking over my shoulder laughing at my stupidity not to see him. If so, Mr. 4-D, just remember there might be a Miss 5-D watching you. [At the time, there was great hope for the third dimension as an entertainment technique. It never did catch on; perhaps it was the feel of the cardboard glasses with a red and a blue lens to bring the overlapping images into coherence. Now, of course, it’s “virtual reality.” It should prove fascinating to see what will be in vogue fifty years from now, in 2070!]

Wednesday, April 1: I received a very interesting letter on this April Fool’s Day. It was from the President of Kent State University. The letter offered me a four-year scholarship to Kent because of the results in the Senior tests. I was certainly surprised to receive it today. I was a little dubious about it on a day such as this.

If I had been a jock, I probably would have memories of days on the football field or basketball court. Instead I focused on debating and ex temp speaking. Less body contact, but high levels of brain power. Friendly rivals play a large part in both athletics and public speaking. I don’t remember anything specific about the NFL members I competed against, but, at the time, their friendship was very important to me, a relative loner in Niles McKinley. The following are actual entries from my diary. Mr. Moritz was the other speech teacher; he was not as good as Mr. Bond.

Saturday, January 24: I had to get up at 5:00 this morning to be ready to leave for St. Joseph’s Academy in Rocky River, 16 miles outside of Cleveland. Individual events in public speaking were held at this Catholic school for girls. I was entered in the ex temp division. My topic for the morning was, “Is there a possibility of using the atomic bomb in Korea?” In the afternoon I “graduated” to the H-bomb with the topic: “Is it advisable to continue research on the Hydrogen Bomb?” For once I was lucky in getting good topics. I gave my talks in small, piano rooms which the girls used for practice. In my rounds I got 2/3, 1/7, 1/7. With this, I tied for first place in the ex temp Division.

Saturday, February 21: Today’s debating was at Euclid in Cleveland. At 6:30 this morning, Norm’s mother ‘phoned to say that he had the flu and could not go to debate. So I had to take a cab over to his place to pick up his material. I debated three rounds of cross-examination alone. I thought I was going crazy. I was up and down so much I lost track of which speech I was giving. I lost to Lorraine and Cathedral Latin, but won from St. Ignatius. The debate topic for this year was, “Resolved: that the Atlantic Pact Nations Should Form a Federal Union.”

Thursday, February 26: Since the Ohio High Schools Speech League was held in Niles starting at four o’clock, Mr. Bond had all of us excused at noon. I met a lot of old friends, including two from Salem. Last year J.J. and I lost to Nora and Sandy. Well, this year Norm and I defeated Nora and Pat. We also won from Ursuline. Dorothy Ann (Dorrie) Wenzel qualified for Columbus in oratorical by placing second. In ex-temp Sol Lerner, one of the twins, took first. Sandy and I tied for second. He was awarded second on judges preference, but since Salem’s junior play covers the time for the finals in Columbus, I was awarded second to qualify for state. I wish it would have been anyone but Sandy. Of all the kids I’ve met in two years whom I have liked, he tops the list. I’m glad he still has another year. I hope he goes to state next year. His full name is Sanford Hansel.

Friday, March 6: The NFL District speech contests began at Rayen. Norman and I were in debate with Scott and Jerry on the opposing side for Niles. Norman and I defeated East for the third time and Struthers. We lost to St. Joe’s. Scott and Jerry, as usual, lost all three. Radio announcing was a new competitive event. Everyone but Scott and Dorothy Ann entered it. I went through the third round; Norm through the fourth or semifinal. Carl Oglesby of Bath Revere and Tom Baker of Euclid were the heroes of the events. Carl took first in ex temp, original oratory, and second place in radio. Tom took second in ex temp, original oratory, and first in radio. [Carl became my roommate in college during our Freshman year! More is given in my KSU years.]

Friday, March 20: I got up at five this morning to get ready to go to Columbus for the speech tournaments. Mr. Moritz and Dorrie Wenzel picked me up at six o’clock. When we started out we passed the Hollow Ranch Grain Store which was on fire. We drove to the fire station to report it, but no one was awake there. When we told one of the policemen, he said he would check. So he got in his patrol car to go to see if there was a fire. Niles, Ohio! Shades of William McKinley!

We had to go to Youngstown first to pick up two kids from Chaney who were to go with us. They were Beverly Dyer and Frank Crushin. They were nice kids. It took us about five hours to drive to Columbus and an hour to drop Bev and Frank off. Frank stayed at the River Road dorms. I had heard of them and thought that I would probably live there if I went to OSU. But after seeing them inside – no thanks. They are the junkiest thing I have ever seen. Reminded me of the place where J.J. stayed last year at Kent.

Then Mr. Moritz took us to the Deschler-Wallick hotel. There was some mistake in our reservations, for Dorrie and I were suppose to room together. But Mr. Moritz and I got it straightened out. He and I roomed together.

The lobby of the D-W was beautiful, or perhaps it was my lack of comparison. However, room 1371 needed no comparison to tell you that it was a mess. It was now noon, but the maid had not yet cleaned up the remains of a beer-card-party of the previous night. They must have had a gay-old-time. When we got back at six that night it had been straightened up.

We immediately went to the campus, for my first round started at 1:15 in ex temp. My topic was: “Will Japan be allowed to re-arm?” I came in fourth. However, I did not feel too bad for Tom Baker of Euclid came in third in my room. Some sophomore came in first. I think he was from Dayton. I had not eaten since 5:30 this morning and it was now 2:30; I went to an Isaly across from the campus. I hurried back to see the round of dramatic oratory. It was very interesting.

Dorrie, Moritz, and I ate dinner at the Mills, a super-deluxe cafeteria. Afterwards, we walked around downtown Columbus. Then we went back to the hotel. Dorrie and I played a couple hands of rummy while Moritz was in the bar.

There wasn’t much to do. When only two go like that, you can’t do very much. You only have fun with a gang of kids. Most gangs didn’t get to sleep until three in the morning. I went to bed at 10:30 and lay awake until four. It was terribly boring.

The next morning, we ate breakfast in the drugstore and then went to the campus again. The weather was wonderful, so we had a chance to look over the campus. OSU is a mammoth place and a beautiful one. After Dorrie’s finals in oratorical, we walked around. We ate in the new five-million-dollar Student Union. It was the most breath-taking building I have seen, the showcase of the campus, with its four lounges, huge ballroom, twin cafeterias, large game rooms and small activity rooms. It was worth seeing. After we had learned that Dorrie had placed third, we left. We got home about six o’clock. Even if I didn’t win, I had fun in Columbus.