his parentsâ surprise. There was in our class an ROTC chieftain, with medals brightening the sunshine where he was. He finked numerous times on his classmates. One, Louis Fratto, who won the Catholic Youth Organization
(CYO) featherweight title, beat the bejeepers out of the medal-lioned one. He asked me if he had gone too far. I kissed both his cheeks as General Foch did those of American soldiers in World War I.
As a parting gift, Mr. Powles offered me two books. I say âofferedâ because it was more than giving. Two books: Rogetâs Thesaurus and Olive Schreinerâs novel The Story of an African Farm. The latter was written under the name of Ralph Iron, much as George Eliot found a name of her own. What astonished me so many years later, during a visit to South Africa, was that Nadine Gordimer told me that was one of the books she had read as a young woman in her family store near Johannesburg.
Now, the wondrous question: How did George W. Powles, an Edwardian schoolteacher, come across this book? Of course, after the two precious books had been many years in my possession, I lost both. (If there were time, I could heartbreakingly explain how I misplaced and never recovered a letter from Charles Chaplin in Vevey, Switzerland, and an astonishing note from Douglas Fairbanks Jr. on the horrors of ageism. Young Fairbanks was a grandfather at the time and I was his co-speaker. It was an assemblage of old guys and dolls, who gave him a standing ovation. I also lost a Western Union telegram from Sterling Hayden, its language so foul that the operator refused to repeat it other than to another woman. It was a lovingly hilarious note of congratulations on my having won the Debs Award.
The second of my McKinley mentors, Robert Potter, was rugged of face with a scraggly mustache. Though he and Powles were venerable contemporaries, their temperaments were somewhat at odds. Andrew Potter taught algebra. He was aware of my woeful weakness in anything involving numbers. Nonetheless, he maintained an air of patience. I found his kindness to me inexplicable, though as a quiet, shy boy, I was very well behaved. When he spoke of certain kinds of people, his speech was less than tender. I assumed he meant âMediterraneans.â It was the time of Italian and
Portuguese workingwomen first writing and then loudly singing âBread and Roses.â No, Mr. Potter had discovered a people to be disliked even more than Mediterraneans: the Jews. As an offering of farewell, he gave me, all wrapped in thick rubber bands, the Dearborn Independent . It was Henry Fordâs beauty; he was publisher. (There was much talk among affluent Jewish groups seeking to put forth a car to rival the Model T. It was called the Star. To say that it flopped is to say that Jack Dempsey defeated Billy Miske. The fight lasted one round.) Not a bet was missed; the paper covered everything from the Protocols of Zion to the killing of Christ.
Perhaps Mr. Potter thought I was a Mel Gibson born a generation too soon.
I started reading them and they caught my attention and held it fast. They contained the most virulent anti-Semitic speeches I had ever encountered. It was so shameless; it approached an eloquence I had never explored. Meyer told me to throw them into the stove, but I hesitated, for I had seen nothing as sensational since Peaches exposed everything about Daddy Browning. 11 I regret that I was never able to express my gratitude for Mr. Potterâs largesse . . .
Our gym teacher was no Jack La Lanne, nor a Jane Fonda. He was in his seventies, with the traditional mustachio, pocket watch in jacket, suit, white shirt and tieâformal attire, except for well-worn white sneakers. âGeorge Commons, sir, is my name.â They all had a common attribute, ingenuity. Mr. Commons always wore heavy sweaters because it was forever cold. The elves came through, theâ42s. Theyâd run by tossing hot pennies at him. Drawing himself
(CYO) featherweight title, beat the bejeepers out of the medal-lioned one. He asked me if he had gone too far. I kissed both his cheeks as General Foch did those of American soldiers in World War I.
As a parting gift, Mr. Powles offered me two books. I say âofferedâ because it was more than giving. Two books: Rogetâs Thesaurus and Olive Schreinerâs novel The Story of an African Farm. The latter was written under the name of Ralph Iron, much as George Eliot found a name of her own. What astonished me so many years later, during a visit to South Africa, was that Nadine Gordimer told me that was one of the books she had read as a young woman in her family store near Johannesburg.
Now, the wondrous question: How did George W. Powles, an Edwardian schoolteacher, come across this book? Of course, after the two precious books had been many years in my possession, I lost both. (If there were time, I could heartbreakingly explain how I misplaced and never recovered a letter from Charles Chaplin in Vevey, Switzerland, and an astonishing note from Douglas Fairbanks Jr. on the horrors of ageism. Young Fairbanks was a grandfather at the time and I was his co-speaker. It was an assemblage of old guys and dolls, who gave him a standing ovation. I also lost a Western Union telegram from Sterling Hayden, its language so foul that the operator refused to repeat it other than to another woman. It was a lovingly hilarious note of congratulations on my having won the Debs Award.
The second of my McKinley mentors, Robert Potter, was rugged of face with a scraggly mustache. Though he and Powles were venerable contemporaries, their temperaments were somewhat at odds. Andrew Potter taught algebra. He was aware of my woeful weakness in anything involving numbers. Nonetheless, he maintained an air of patience. I found his kindness to me inexplicable, though as a quiet, shy boy, I was very well behaved. When he spoke of certain kinds of people, his speech was less than tender. I assumed he meant âMediterraneans.â It was the time of Italian and
Portuguese workingwomen first writing and then loudly singing âBread and Roses.â No, Mr. Potter had discovered a people to be disliked even more than Mediterraneans: the Jews. As an offering of farewell, he gave me, all wrapped in thick rubber bands, the Dearborn Independent . It was Henry Fordâs beauty; he was publisher. (There was much talk among affluent Jewish groups seeking to put forth a car to rival the Model T. It was called the Star. To say that it flopped is to say that Jack Dempsey defeated Billy Miske. The fight lasted one round.) Not a bet was missed; the paper covered everything from the Protocols of Zion to the killing of Christ.
Perhaps Mr. Potter thought I was a Mel Gibson born a generation too soon.
I started reading them and they caught my attention and held it fast. They contained the most virulent anti-Semitic speeches I had ever encountered. It was so shameless; it approached an eloquence I had never explored. Meyer told me to throw them into the stove, but I hesitated, for I had seen nothing as sensational since Peaches exposed everything about Daddy Browning. 11 I regret that I was never able to express my gratitude for Mr. Potterâs largesse . . .
Our gym teacher was no Jack La Lanne, nor a Jane Fonda. He was in his seventies, with the traditional mustachio, pocket watch in jacket, suit, white shirt and tieâformal attire, except for well-worn white sneakers. âGeorge Commons, sir, is my name.â They all had a common attribute, ingenuity. Mr. Commons always wore heavy sweaters because it was forever cold. The elves came through, theâ42s. Theyâd run by tossing hot pennies at him. Drawing himself
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