In the early and mid 1960s, when central New Jersey was changing from farmland to suburbia, many boys growing up there found themselves in a sort of limbo. Farm related work and recreation were becoming a thing of the past, but many of us were still too young to work in the booming construction that was going on.

It was a boring and lonely time. School provided only limited relief for those of us who lived in the far corners of the township, after-school activity meant a long walk home in the gathering darkness, stumbling through construction and cutting across cow pastures. Despite the changing landscape, New Jersey still boasted some of the healthiest cows on earth—and they ate quite well. A misstep could find a boy ankle deep in bovine byproduct, and in school shoes, too!

My folks had a Philco AM radio, manufactured circa 1949. Television had made this brown Bakelite beauty with its warm, softly glowing vacuum tubes obsolete. I was happy to inherit the radio. It helped me through those bleak and awkward times. WABC in New York provided much comfort with the excitement of the “British invasion.” But, whenever there was some big political event, such as Mayor Lindsay delivering a speech that would dictate the future of thousands of topless waitresses (I kid you not—this was big news!), the New York stations would give it exclusive coverage.

There were Philadelphia stations too, with much the same musical format, that one could tune in to in those years. The New Jersey stations all seemed to play non-stop Sinatra.

Anyway, this led to my becoming a radio dial surfer, fascinated by the many stations that I could tun in from the U.S. and Canada, as well as the signals from short wave, teletype, radar, thunderstorms, the northern lights, and ships at sea.

As I was spinning the dial late one night, I picked up an especially strong signal, on which frequency a man was telling a funny story about an old car he'd once owned. Gearhead that I am, I was at once hooked, although later stories took me to other places and times as well.

Though I had no idea at the time—or maybe I did—tuning in to Jean Shepherd's radio program on WOR (New York) would have a life-long effect on where I might be going and who I might become.

He wove his stories of steel mills, Depression-era neighborhoods, kids, cars, old people, explosives, outer space, the occult, and druids. He recited classic poetry, from haiku to Robert Service. He came up with enough material for five forty-five minute shows and a one hour live show at the Limelight Club in Greenwich Village on Saturday night every week for untold years. It soon dawned on me that he was telling bits of his life story in vivid detail.

Jean Shepherd taught me that no day is completely wasted, but rather that every day has its special moments and it's all history in the making. Everyone has a million stories that someone, somewhere will want to hear—some day.

I really took what I was learning to heart, but several of my teachers seemed to think that this was damaging to my formal education. This was a time of skinny neckties and minds that could be just as narrow. In that place and time, it wasn't yet acceptable to question the established order. Their advice wasn't necessarily wrong—just in my case.

Indeed, I was deriving an education from these programs that was advancing me far beyond the school's sixth grade curriculum.

An apparently well-intentioned male English teacher cornered me and delivered a rad-faced tirade about where I was heading. During his rant, I counted the lighting fixtures in the room and kept coming up with odd numbers—eleven or thirteen—and so had to count them again. I soon gave up on this and started on the ceiling tiles, but his form obscured many of these from view. I finally had to settle for trying to calculate the approximate revolutions per minute (RPM) at which the rolls of lint between his neck and shirt collar were spinning as he nodded his head in a negative gesture about my future.

At least that's what I thought he was doing at the time. I've since learned that mediocrity has some very dedicated advocates. (In later years, I was nearly outdone in my skills of ignoring or responding to this type of behavior by daughter Jessi who, when the recipient of a similar harangue by her junior high school principal, calmly corrected his grammar, causing nearby faculty to go into apoplexies of subdued laughter. I say I was nearly outdone because my case involved an English teacher who thus had perfect diction. Of course, I couldn't correct his grammar, which constitutes a handicap). Another teacher told me that such notions as these were damaging to my social life. Apart from a few hunting buddies, I wasn't aware that there was anything to damage. Still another teacher, one of those award winning, book authoring types, tuned in to Shepherd's program. We regularly exchanged knowing smiles and winks. She was also among the few who understood some of my schoolwork, one example being a safety poster that read “Half a leg, half a leg, half a leg offward—forward the lawnmower blade . . . .”

As mentioned, Shepherd regularly read classic poetry—as a filler, I guess. I was also introduced to the “beat” poets, such as Jack Kerouac and Lenny Bruce (such of his work as could be read on the air).

Today, I have only the standard regrets. My business, now in its 20th year, has taken me to some beautiful and interesting places. I serve a high-end clientele—I could name-drop all day (so many are in high level government positions that I probably have my own satellite). It has enabled me to pay off a home and helped to raise three wonderful children, who have become bright, creative, motivated adults. My wife Stephanie and I are approaching our thirty-second wedding anniversary, so it looks like it might work out. My writing is published worldwide and is steadily growing in popularity.

As for Jean Shepherd, before leaving us he authored many books (I don't have a full count), magazine articles, and short stories, including the cult classic “A Christmas Story.” As I remember those teachers who tried to save me from myself, they all seem to be saying the same thing: “You'll shoot your eye out, kid.”

Back to Far Muse Column Index

© 2002 tedkalvitis@yahoo.com