by Don Potter
I celebrated along with everyone else and will never forget how the people in Pittsburgh came together during the war years. With the family gathered at our house, my dad raised his glass high in a toast and said, “Here’s to the American spirit. Our hearts were hardened during the depression and softened through the renewed faith in God during the war. May the feeling of patriotism reign forever in America as it did in these past few years when the country was truly united.”
4
The atomic bomb ended World War II, but peace is not here to stay. A few years later fighting begins when Communist North Korea invades South Korea. The television phenomenon explodes across the country. And Bobby gets bad news about school.
* * *
In my mind, the biggest single thing to happen following the end of the war was the advent of television, which rapidly expanded into more and more homes and changed the routines of American families. But there was the Korean Conflict, as the government called it. This pitted ideologies against one another: communism versus the free world. The United States soon became involved and troops were deployed once again to fight in the name of freedom. Although the “Cold War” with Russia caused tension, this was a “Hot War” and guys my brother Jimmy’s age where being inducted into military service.
By this time, Pittsburgh was committed to being known as more than a factory town. Dad was on a civic advisory board to help with this so-called Renaissance. He told us more than once that people would soon see there was more to this town than smoke and soot. Dad also worked on a number of new consumer projects at Westinghouse. One day he came home and grandly announced, “You’re looking at the new head of the Westinghouse Consumer Products Division.”
I did my best to look interested but it didn’t mean much to me.
“This means a big raise and a lot more,” he said.
He looked very pleased with himself. I was happy that he was happy.
A few months later, Dad turned to me at dinner and said, “I have news just for you, young man. We’ll be moving to Fox Chapel, and you’ll be going to a private high school.”
I didn’t like that one bit and it showed on my face.
“You’ll get a better education this way,” Mom said.
“I don’t want to go to a private school with all the snobby kids. What’s wrong with Mount Lebanon High? It’s known for academics, and I can take the bus back and forth,” I protested.
“The school you’ll be going to is in Fox Chapel, so it will be easier for everyone. After we move this summer, you’ll be ready for the new school in the fall.”
That was it. We were moving and I was going to a new school. It was going to be a nightmare.
To my surprise, it wasn’t. I liked the school, made friends and got excited about the classic liberal arts curriculum. I felt like a grownup even though I was just a lowly freshman. Along with my studies, I went for sports: wrestling in the winter and tennis in the spring. Dad now belonged to a country club, so I learned to play golf too.
An incident occurred downtown that garnered a lot of news coverage. A group of Negro boys beat up a couple of white kids. People in Pittsburgh did not talk about segregation when I was growing up. This story shined a light on the silent existence of a growing problem that could result in conflict. There was “The Hill” area on the other side of downtown as well as the Homestead section where most Negroes lived. I learned to call these people Negroes, but most older whites referred to them as colored. We never saw them where I lived, except for a workman from time to time. If we went to a movie in town, we might see a few Negroes sitting in the back of the theater. When I asked why they all sat there, I was told, “The colored people like to sit together.”
The same kind of prejudice surfaced when I expressed interest in a Catholic girl who lived nearby. I was told, “She’s a nice girl, but it’s best if Kathleen stays with her own friends. The Catholics like it that way, you know. When you start dating, there are plenty of nice Presbyterian young ladies for you to take out. Or, if they don’t suit you, there are always the girls from the Methodist church.”
There was a great shadow over the country: Poliomyelitis commonly called Infantile Paralysis or Polio. We were warned not to put our mouths on the drinking fountains, or share drinks from pop bottles, and to never, ever swim in untreated water such as creeks and rivers. And we were shown what might happen if we did any of those things. One day a white bus came to school and we were walked through it to see a twelve-year-old boy in an iron lung. It was frightening to see him lying on his back with a little pillow under his head, looking up at a mirror, with the constant hum of the machine that kept him alive. For several weeks after that I had nightmares about what I had seen.
My sister Peggy graduated from college and moved to New York City to be an assistant to one of the assistant editors at a major fashion magazine. My brother, Jimmy, was at the Naval Academy and hoped to be a Navy or Marine fighter pilot. Since my sister was definitely the beauty in the family and my brother was the brawn, if I expected to stand out in anyway, it was up to me to be the brains.
When a couple of my friends turned sixteen, they got their driver’s licenses right away. Access to wheels meant freedom. We drove all over the city and burned rubber at every stop light, even though it was a lame family car. We were four guys in search of adventure, which never materialized because we were too busy driving around, singing along with the radio, and talking about picking up girls.
Sometimes girls went with us to enjoy the pool at the country club or when we loaded up the car for dollar night at the local drive-in movies. Life was good.
My birthday was coming up in November and I wanted to drive to the holiday parties.
“I know you want to start driving soon,” Dad said as we were on the way to a Pitt Panthers football game.
“Yeah, everybody learns before their sixteenth birthday, so they’re ready to take the driver’s test the week after.”
“And whose car do you expect to be using?”
“I was thinking Mom’s would be okay.”
“Her car is pretty new.”
“What about yours?”
“This one’s even newer.”
“Well, what am I going to do?”
“How much money have you saved?”
“Around three hundred bucks. I have it in a savings account at the local Mellon Bank like you suggested.”
“How much do you think you’ll have saved by summer?”
“I can’t wait ‘till then.”
“How much?”
“If I don’t spend the money your parents always send me for Christmas and make some money doing things around here, maybe five hundred, tops.”
“Okay, here’s the deal. Get all A’s in your junior year and I’ll match whatever you save, so you’ll be able buy your own car at the end of the school year.”
“But what about now?”
“I’ll teach you how to drive on weekends once you get your learner’s permit. If you’re in a hurry, apply for the permit on your birthday.”
“How will I be able to be driving by Christmas?”
“You won’t be. And even if you had your license by then you would not be driving either of the family cars. This is not a punishment, but it is a precaution. Cars can be dangerous and those behind the wheel must be responsible and have enough experience to know how to be careful. Besides, the most important thing is to get top grades.”
“I guess I should say thanks for the offer, but this is not how I thought things would go down.”
“Life does not always go the way you want or even how you plan it. You ought to know that by now, Bobby.”
“Rob, Dad. I stopped calling myself Bobby when we moved.” Everybody at school knew me as Rob, but my family had yet to make the adjustment.
Naturally, I was disappointed about the prospect of not being able to drive as soon as possible. But Dad was doing what he felt was best
for me, and there was nothing I could do to change his mind. I aced my junior year and crushed the college boards. And Debby, the girl I found interesting at the beginning of the school year, was still unattached.
Dad had another lesson for me to learn. “You have any thoughts about college?”
“Yeah. I’m definitely ready to go.”
“What do you want to study?”
“Haven’t given it all that much thought yet. I just wanted to do well enough this year to get into whatever school I want. And it looks like I accomplished that.”
“Any thoughts on what you want to do after college?”
“My love of books, working on the student newspaper, and being selected as the editor of the yearbook has me thinking about a writing career.”
“So what would your major be?”
“Probably English Literature.”
“You want to be a teacher?”
“I’m not too keen on that.”
“You might want to look at journalism. Maybe you’ll even pen a book someday.” Dad was always practical.
“Makes sense.”
“Something else that makes sense is to get a feel for what it’s like to work for a living. Get an understanding of being an employee and the value of the money you earn.”
I got a part-time job at the local Thorofare, the supermarket chain that gave S&H Green Stamps. This provided me with money and enough free time to have the summer of my life. When I was not working, Debby and I played tennis, hung out at the pool, and drove around in my 1941 Ford two-door sedan. The car was older than I would have liked and not particularly stylish, but it was what I could afford. So I decided to use the money left in the car fund to spruce it up. I bought whitewall tires, fender skirts and chrome hub caps plus added a few other touches to give my “wheels” a bit of a customized California-look, as depicted in Hot Rod and Motor Trend magazines. I thought the car looked pretty neat. Debby did too.
She and I spent so much time together that summer it seemed only natural for us to learn about sex together. We did a lot of kissing, which turned into heavy petting, until one night we went all the way. I think both of us were a little scared at first.
I was a virgin and guess she was too. I never really asked and she didn’t say. After getting over the initial jitters, I wanted to have sex whenever we had the opportunity. And Debby went along with my wishes more often than not. What a summer!
5
The Korean Conflict ends. Peanuts becomes a syndicated comic strip. Rob learns the facts of life and something about his mortality. Things do not go Rob’s way, but he was told whatever happens is always for the best.
* * *
The first copy of Playboy magazine was passed around school during my senior year, and I got to see Marilyn Monroe’s breasts. Not long after Christmas vacation I received my acceptance letter to Columbia. I was flying high. Nothing could stop me now. Or so I thought. I was getting tired easily and thirsty all the time. My mother noticed I was losing weight and asked me, “Are you feeling all right?”
“Not really,” I said.
“I’ll call the doctor in the morning,” Mom said. “With everyone kissing each other over the holidays, you could have picked up some kind of bug.”
“Mono is known as the kissing illness. Is Debby feeling poorly too?” Dad laughed, and I turned a little red before making a mental note to ask her how she felt.
The doctor seemed to draw enough blood to supply the local chapter of the Red Cross for a month. He said the symptoms suggested I might have adult onset diabetes, but we would have to wait for the lab test to know for sure. I assumed I was about to die and went back to praying for the first time since I was a little kid. My prayer was simple: make the diabetes go away and let me go to college. I even vowed to stop having sex with Debby if my request was honored. I couldn’t think of a bigger deal. The week of waiting and praying proved to be the longest seven days of my young life.
“Well, Robert. Is that what friends call you?” the doctor asked at our next appointment.
“I prefer Rob.”
“Rob it is. The results came back, Rob. You are hypoglycemic, which could easily lead to diabetes. But we can control it. We’ll see how you respond to certain medications and find the proper dosage so you can live a normal, happy life.”
“And just how long do I have to live?” I said, feeling as if life as I knew it was over.
“Please, Bobby, don’t interrupt the doctor,” Mom said.
“That’s quite all right, Missus Fleming. His reaction is normal. Ask me anything you want, Rob.”
“Is this diabetes thing going to kill me? And, if so, how soon before I die?”
“No, it won’t kill you. We’ll start with low-dose medication and keep adjusting things until we can balance your system and maintain normal numbers. Through experimenting, we’ll be able to determine the proper dosage.”
“Needles? Will I have to inject myself?”
“Hopefully, no. But if you don’t respond to treatment and diabetes does occur, insulin would be the next step.”
“How long will this testing take. I’m going to Columbia in the fall.”
“First things first.”
“You mean I can’t go to college?”
“Let’s get your health under control. September is a long way off. The next few months will tell the story.” The doctor turned to Mom, “Could I have a word with you, Missus Fleming?”
“What about me? It’s my life.”
“Bobby, please wait outside for just a minute.”
I left. I was angry with God, and my mind jumped back and forth between two images: the nude photo of Marilyn Monroe and the kid in the iron lung. And I was in the iron lung.
Finally Mom appeared. We left without saying a word and drove to a little ice cream shop on the way home. She ordered two hot fudge sundaes with whipped cream and a cherry on top. Nothing was said until they were delivered to our table.
“You’ll be just fine,” she said. “The doctor is certain your health will improve and not affect normal activities. But he recommends that you participate in an ongoing research study at the University of Pittsburgh. That means changing your college plans.”
“No way. There are doctors at Columbia. The university accepted me and I’m going.”
“Not if the doctor doesn’t release you.”
“Then we’ll find another doctor. And why am I eating ice cream covered with syrup and whipped cream if I’m a diabetic?”
“You’re not one yet. This will be the last sweet treat for a while, so I thought we could enjoy it together and talk about what has to be done.”
“What do you know that I don’t?” I asked.
“There are many things to consider. We’ll continue this discussion when your father gets home.”
The conversation did not end at dinner that night. It continued until my doctor and the medical research team at Pitt collaborated to tell me I was not physically fit to go to Columbia or any other out-of-town college. All concurred that I should make other plans. I was devastated, yet not surprised, because I had researched hypoglycemia and diabetes at the library. The doctor just confirmed what I feared.
I refused to allow my disappointment to deter me from going to college in the fall. There was not much time left before the end of the school year, so I had to make some decisions and make them fast. After discussions with a variety of people and conducting library research, the University of Pittsburgh was the option that made the most sense to me. It did not yet have a school of journalism, but it offered the opportunity for a solid education. Within a couple of weeks, I had taken the necessary steps to get enrolled in the upcoming semester at Pitt, majoring in Liberal Arts.
My secret hope was to transfer to Columbia once I got a clean bill of health, but I did not tell anyone about this because it would certainly spark a debate. In the meantime, I would continue participating in the diabetes res
earch study, eat properly, exercise and get plenty of rest in order to get my health back on track. It was all up to me from now on. Being sick was the luck of the draw, I concluded, but my good grades were a result of my hard work. My prayers had gone unanswered by a God I somehow believed to be a year-round Santa Claus. He proved not to be and that was reason enough to give up praying.
Debby and I were having problems. We had been going steady throughout our senior year, but she was going to follow in her father’s footsteps and study pre-med come fall at Tufts College near Boston. Since she was leaving, I wanted to have a repeat of last summer but she did not share my passion. Strangely my medical condition did not seem to have an effect on my overactive teenage hormones. I believed sex would take my mind off whatever physical problems I had.
I was not allowed to work, and I did not fight it. This meant I had a lot of free time, but Debby was too busy to spend much of her time with me. Frustrated, I read constantly. I read the paper every morning. Being informed gave me a feeling of power, except when it came to Debby. With her I was powerless. I started a journal, as my homeroom teacher had suggested, and although the summer did not produce any experiences to write about, I wrote daily about what I was thinking. When I felt down, I took long drives alone. The car radio was always on and I would switch from station to station to catch the latest tunes filling the airwaves.