Exactly three years ago today I was attending my 50th high school class reunion in Minot. The Ryan High Class of '65 had eighty-nine members. We have the distinction of being the only class in the school's history not to have received a yearbook. The two word explanation from the administration at the time was "no money." It's a sore subject which raises its frowning head every time we get together.
Through the years we have had five reunions. The same three or four women classmates end up doing 90+% of the work because they still live in the area. So, by default, the job is theirs to accept or decline. Thankfully, they have always stepped to the plate. The reunions have been some of the best weekends of my social life. We have class members throughout the country, yet many come back for every reunion. Hardly any classmates have family left in the Magic City. The attraction is simply the chance to be with folks we only get to see every decade or so and with whom we shared many good times and bad. As a class we have a pretty high opinion of each other. I definitely don't have a problem with that; in fact, I think our group's self-assessment is well deserved.
When we were students in the sixties, we were segregated into three tracks. With rare exceptions, each student attended class only with students in her own track. Consequently, the opportunities to develop friendships with those outside of our own track were limited, at least during the school day. For kids like me and the incoming transfers from Minot Air Force Base, that could be problematic. I believe that's a key reason why our reunions, even though held in a relatively remote part of the country, are well attended. The reunions have been a vehicle for getting better acquainted with people who, ironically, share a history yet with whom we're not all that acquainted. A case in point was Ken Korgel.
The most somber part of any reunion is learning who among our classmates has passed away. As of three years ago, that number was up to fifteen, nine more than was the sad statistic at our 40th reunion. Ken Korgel died as a result of an automobile accident shortly after our 40th. In the years following his retirement as a water plant operator for the city of Minot, Kenny had taken up ranching on the nearby prairies. We were not in each other's track at Ryan, and for some reason never connected at a reunion until our 40th in 2005. (He had transferred out of Ryan before graduation, yet was invited to the reunions.) After speaking with him for the first time at length, I found him to be a very cordial and humorous guy, attributes common among most in my circle of friends at Ryan. I regretted that it took forty-some years to get to know him, and was looking forward to seeing him again at the 50th. Were it not for the reunion we would not have met.
As is common for many schools' reunions, the class members have been asked by the reunion committee to write a little bio each of the few times we've gathered. For the first reunion in 1975, the classmates were succinct to a fault, writing only a few sentences describing their families and occupations. But as we got older those bios started to expand. This ritual was extremely interesting especially with regard to the submissions from classmates who were unable to make the trek to Minot.
For our 40th reunion the committee really went overboard, putting together a booklet with a page set aside for each classmate to submit a longer piece, in some cases accompanied by a picture or two. The idea was that these would be the yearbooks we never had. Those self-published nouveau yearbooks proved to be such a hit that the practice was repeated for our 50th reunion. My submission for the 50th was three paragraphs, much longer than anything I'd sent to the committee before, but generally with a word count similar to what my friends wrote, i.e., those who bothered to write anything.
I've decided to post that 2015 epistle on this blog for two reasons. First, I tried to insert a little humor, so it's within the realm of possibility, albeit slim, that some of what you read might generate a modest smile. Who couldn't use a smile? The second gets back to one of the reasons I've chosen to continue The Quentin Chronicle for now. One or more of my grandchildren might some day come across the blog and read a post or two. The subject matter of several of the posts I've written are autobiographical snippets which might fill in some of the blanks if and when they wonder what old Papa Johnny was like. I wish I had more info on my four grandparents, two of whom died before I was born. Oral history is hardly comprehensive; it can only take you so far.
Keep in mind that the following was written three years ago. Some things have changed since then, most notably the arrival of granddaughters Louisa and June. If I make it to my 60th class reunion, maybe I'll furnish an update.
****
I retired in 2007 after exactly twenty-four years and two days as a commercial attorney at Wells Fargo. My wife, Mary, and I just celebrated our thirty-ninth anniversary in June. We have three kids, ages 37-31, all of whom are married and live here in the Twin Cities. Gina is a food manager for a suburban school district, while Michael and Jillian teach high school English and kindergarten, respectively. Our greatest joy is being with our beautiful granddaughters, Rosie (age 2) and Winnie (1). Mary and I can attest that all the wonderful things our friends told us about grandparenting are true; lots of fun with few of the responsibilities of parenthood.
To avoid being a total couch potato, I enjoy hiking, biking, writing, traveling, attending movies and plays, and checking out the restaurant scene. For live music entertainment we are groupies of a bluegrass band called Luke Warm & The Cool Hands, mostly because they put on a great show, but also because our son and son-in-law are bandmates. Mary and I are both big sports fans, especially following the Twins with hopes that they can avoid their fifth consecutive season of ninety-plus losses. We snowshoe once a year so that we can claim to be hardy outdoor enthusiasts. For a change of scenery in the non-winter months we go to our cabin in the Wisconsin North Woods, where the main activities are boating, reading, canoeing, eating, napping and, naturally, beer drinking (those last two usually occurring in inverse order). I like to fish, but only for two hours at a time in the middle of a sunny July afternoon. I wonder why I never even get a nibble.
Even though we’ve been in it for almost sixteen years, I am reluctant to join the twenty-first century. I am not on Facebook, don’t own a Kindle, and still subscribe to the print edition of the daily newspaper. Snapchat and Instagram are foreign to me. I signed up for Twitter three years ago; my next tweet will be my first. I do know how to use e-mail, however, so if your time permits, please let me hear from you at periolat47@gmail.com.
Showing posts with label Bishop Ryan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bishop Ryan. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 12, 2018
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Movie Review: "Selma"
"Selma": B+. My favorite class during high school was Democracy, taught by Father
Henry Schneider at Bishop Ryan my senior year, 1964-65. The subject
matter was approximately 25% civics, for which we had a text book, and
75% current events. For that latter component, each student had to
subscribe to Time Magazine, which in those days was the most respected
nationwide purveyor of printed news in the country. Every week Father
Schneider assigned at least four sections of Time: on Mondays he quizzed
us on the National section; on Tuesdays, the World section; on
Wednesdays, the Business section, and any other section he deemed to be
of particular interest; and on Thursdays, the cover story. We had four
Time-related quizzes a week, plus whatever test or quiz he threw at us
for civics. As a result, there has hardly been a time in my life when I
was more up to speed in what was going on not only in the US, but
worldwide.
And what a time of history it was. The presidential elections were held near the beginning of the school year. Although the results were lopsided -- incumbent Democrat Lyndon Baines Johnson captured 61% of the votes, while Republican Senator Barry Goldwater ("In your heart, you know he's right") won only five southern states plus his home state, Arizona -- our classroom informal discussions and formal debates were a highlight. The Cold War was in a deep freeze, and the Viet Nam war was escalating. "Red" China was a mysterious enemy, and a hot topic was whether that country under its new leadership should be admitted to the United Nations. Although the US had already won the race to the moon, the Russian and American cosmonauts and astronauts were still making headlines. But the constant news item which captivated many of us virtually every week was the civil rights movement.
Considering Minot's remote location in a conservative rural state, I found the general attitude of the Ryan students toward civil rights to be quite progressive and open-minded. Ryan was not the most diverse of schools. But the proximity of the Magic City to Minot Air Force Base contributed to a culture of hospitality. New military families were regularly appearing, having been transferred to the tundra from all over the country. As a class, the concept of ingrained hatred based on skin color was hard for us to fathom. Time Magazine's pictures and text surrounding the Selma to Montgomery march in the spring of 1965 captivated us more than any other singular event. Selma was roughly the same size as Minot. How could the two communities be so different?
In 2006, I finally had a chance to visit Selma with Momma Cuan when we took our memorable Dixie Trip. (Some day I may post about it.) Even though it was more than an hour in each direction out of our way, Selma was on my short "must see" list. The sight of the iconic Edmund Pettus Bridge, which looked exactly the same as it did in the 1965 national news footage, sent a shiver through my bones. (Only the experience of seeing the Texas School Book Depository in person had the same effect on me.) It was here that the marchers, led by Dr. Martin Luther King, made history. We spent a little time driving around the town, which revealed no hint of its turbulent past from four decades ago. Before we left we also checked out the Brown Chapel (actually a good size church), six blocks from the bridge, where the marchers began their brave expeditions.
Given my personal interest in Selma dating back to my Democracy class, you can understand why I was very eager and curious to see the new movie Selma.
The movie simultaneously covers a battle and a war. The "war," for which film critics and historians have accused the filmmakers of playing loose with the facts, concerns the civil rights movement and the face-to-face strategy debates between Dr. King (David Oyelowo) and President Johnson (Tom Wilkinson). According to the film, Johnson wanted to hold back on the push for minority voting rights, deeming it wiser to concentrate more on eliminating other aspects of discrimination, such as inequality in education, employment and the judicial system, and access to public facilities. King saw voting rights as the piece of the puzzle that could not wait. For example, as he explained to the president, blacks were practically barred from receiving a constitutionally guaranteed right to be judged in court by a jury of their peers, because only registered voters were permitted to stock the jury pools. Unfair state voter registration rules kept minorities out. One reason why King's Southern Christian Leadership Conference picked Selma for action is because fifty percent of the town's residents were black, but only two percent were registered voters.
The "battle" was the march from Selma to the Alabama state capital, Montgomery, a distance of fifty-four miles. As the movie displays, there were actually three attempts at such marches, each bearing drastically different outcomes. The Edmund Pettus Bridge, spanning the wide Alabama River, is the ominous backdrop for each expedition. These three mimi-chapters were the unquestioned highlights of the film. Even for those who are familiar with the story, the large scale dramatization of those events is impressively shocking. The two-fold purpose of the march was to call national attention to the plight of southern blacks, and to put pressure on Governor George Wallace (Tim Roth), with the urging of LBJ, to use state resources to give black Alabamans equal protection under the law. Missions accomplished, although not without blood, sweat, tears and even murder.
I was afraid Selma would fall into the same rut that 2012's Lincoln (reviewed here on November 28, 2012; C+) did. Both movies are about famous American leaders who were at the forefront of civil rights movements and who were gifted with tremendous oratory skills. The newer film, directed by Ava DuVernay, has a few too many scenes featuring lengthly speeches, but unlike the older film, those "preachy" scenes are spaced more smartly, with other, action scenes interspersed. One doesn't get the feeling that the story is only a series of speeches. So, my caution regarding Selma was only partially (maybe "minimally" would be a better adverb) warranted.
Another shortcoming which those two films share is the number of characters who appear but who are not identified or explained. For example, Andrew Young (Andre Holland) and Ralph Abernathy (Colman Domingo) are well known names even today, but in Selma they're relegated to such minor parts that we are unable to identify them on screen. Malcom X (Nigel Thatch) appears on the screen for only a minute or two, apparently for the sole purpose of establishing who he is when we find out a little later that he's been killed offscreen.
Wilkinson proves once again that he is a versatile actor. His LBJ is exactly how I remember the old Texan, with the weight of the world on his shoulders in the Oval Office. Conversely, Dylan Baker's version of FBI Chief J. Edgar Hoover seems random and disconnected. Roth's George Wallace falls somewhere in the middle; at least the greasy pompadour looked accurate.
I predict great things for newcomers Carmen Ejogo, who played Coretta Scott King, and Oyelowo. Their speech and movements were obviously results of long hours of research and preparation for their respective roles. The film contains innuendo of Martin's infidelity, a problem which, among other things, causes him to delay his participation in one of the marches. The scene in which Coretta, wanting the truth, confronts her husband is a touching display of acting at its finest.
My parents lived in Texas for several months in 1942 after my dad enlisted in the Army Air Corps. When I was a grade schooler growing up in Illinois, they once told me that, for many southerners, the Civil War was not over. After watching Selma it would be hard for me to think my parents misspoke. It's disheartening to think that Selma's historical events were "only" fifty years ago. The need to carry on the battle for equality lives on today, and not just in Dixie. Prejudice has not been eradicated, but were it not for the efforts of King and his supporters, America's twenty-first century racial chasm would be even wider. That renders Selma an important movie.
And what a time of history it was. The presidential elections were held near the beginning of the school year. Although the results were lopsided -- incumbent Democrat Lyndon Baines Johnson captured 61% of the votes, while Republican Senator Barry Goldwater ("In your heart, you know he's right") won only five southern states plus his home state, Arizona -- our classroom informal discussions and formal debates were a highlight. The Cold War was in a deep freeze, and the Viet Nam war was escalating. "Red" China was a mysterious enemy, and a hot topic was whether that country under its new leadership should be admitted to the United Nations. Although the US had already won the race to the moon, the Russian and American cosmonauts and astronauts were still making headlines. But the constant news item which captivated many of us virtually every week was the civil rights movement.
Considering Minot's remote location in a conservative rural state, I found the general attitude of the Ryan students toward civil rights to be quite progressive and open-minded. Ryan was not the most diverse of schools. But the proximity of the Magic City to Minot Air Force Base contributed to a culture of hospitality. New military families were regularly appearing, having been transferred to the tundra from all over the country. As a class, the concept of ingrained hatred based on skin color was hard for us to fathom. Time Magazine's pictures and text surrounding the Selma to Montgomery march in the spring of 1965 captivated us more than any other singular event. Selma was roughly the same size as Minot. How could the two communities be so different?
In 2006, I finally had a chance to visit Selma with Momma Cuan when we took our memorable Dixie Trip. (Some day I may post about it.) Even though it was more than an hour in each direction out of our way, Selma was on my short "must see" list. The sight of the iconic Edmund Pettus Bridge, which looked exactly the same as it did in the 1965 national news footage, sent a shiver through my bones. (Only the experience of seeing the Texas School Book Depository in person had the same effect on me.) It was here that the marchers, led by Dr. Martin Luther King, made history. We spent a little time driving around the town, which revealed no hint of its turbulent past from four decades ago. Before we left we also checked out the Brown Chapel (actually a good size church), six blocks from the bridge, where the marchers began their brave expeditions.
Given my personal interest in Selma dating back to my Democracy class, you can understand why I was very eager and curious to see the new movie Selma.
The movie simultaneously covers a battle and a war. The "war," for which film critics and historians have accused the filmmakers of playing loose with the facts, concerns the civil rights movement and the face-to-face strategy debates between Dr. King (David Oyelowo) and President Johnson (Tom Wilkinson). According to the film, Johnson wanted to hold back on the push for minority voting rights, deeming it wiser to concentrate more on eliminating other aspects of discrimination, such as inequality in education, employment and the judicial system, and access to public facilities. King saw voting rights as the piece of the puzzle that could not wait. For example, as he explained to the president, blacks were practically barred from receiving a constitutionally guaranteed right to be judged in court by a jury of their peers, because only registered voters were permitted to stock the jury pools. Unfair state voter registration rules kept minorities out. One reason why King's Southern Christian Leadership Conference picked Selma for action is because fifty percent of the town's residents were black, but only two percent were registered voters.
The "battle" was the march from Selma to the Alabama state capital, Montgomery, a distance of fifty-four miles. As the movie displays, there were actually three attempts at such marches, each bearing drastically different outcomes. The Edmund Pettus Bridge, spanning the wide Alabama River, is the ominous backdrop for each expedition. These three mimi-chapters were the unquestioned highlights of the film. Even for those who are familiar with the story, the large scale dramatization of those events is impressively shocking. The two-fold purpose of the march was to call national attention to the plight of southern blacks, and to put pressure on Governor George Wallace (Tim Roth), with the urging of LBJ, to use state resources to give black Alabamans equal protection under the law. Missions accomplished, although not without blood, sweat, tears and even murder.
I was afraid Selma would fall into the same rut that 2012's Lincoln (reviewed here on November 28, 2012; C+) did. Both movies are about famous American leaders who were at the forefront of civil rights movements and who were gifted with tremendous oratory skills. The newer film, directed by Ava DuVernay, has a few too many scenes featuring lengthly speeches, but unlike the older film, those "preachy" scenes are spaced more smartly, with other, action scenes interspersed. One doesn't get the feeling that the story is only a series of speeches. So, my caution regarding Selma was only partially (maybe "minimally" would be a better adverb) warranted.
Another shortcoming which those two films share is the number of characters who appear but who are not identified or explained. For example, Andrew Young (Andre Holland) and Ralph Abernathy (Colman Domingo) are well known names even today, but in Selma they're relegated to such minor parts that we are unable to identify them on screen. Malcom X (Nigel Thatch) appears on the screen for only a minute or two, apparently for the sole purpose of establishing who he is when we find out a little later that he's been killed offscreen.
Wilkinson proves once again that he is a versatile actor. His LBJ is exactly how I remember the old Texan, with the weight of the world on his shoulders in the Oval Office. Conversely, Dylan Baker's version of FBI Chief J. Edgar Hoover seems random and disconnected. Roth's George Wallace falls somewhere in the middle; at least the greasy pompadour looked accurate.
I predict great things for newcomers Carmen Ejogo, who played Coretta Scott King, and Oyelowo. Their speech and movements were obviously results of long hours of research and preparation for their respective roles. The film contains innuendo of Martin's infidelity, a problem which, among other things, causes him to delay his participation in one of the marches. The scene in which Coretta, wanting the truth, confronts her husband is a touching display of acting at its finest.
My parents lived in Texas for several months in 1942 after my dad enlisted in the Army Air Corps. When I was a grade schooler growing up in Illinois, they once told me that, for many southerners, the Civil War was not over. After watching Selma it would be hard for me to think my parents misspoke. It's disheartening to think that Selma's historical events were "only" fifty years ago. The need to carry on the battle for equality lives on today, and not just in Dixie. Prejudice has not been eradicated, but were it not for the efforts of King and his supporters, America's twenty-first century racial chasm would be even wider. That renders Selma an important movie.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Thursday Night Prom
Ah, the snow is blowing, the wind is howling and the temp is in the 30's. It must be prom season. Many high schools are having theirs tonight. Benilde-St. Margaret's, where Momma Cuandito worked for thirty-three years and the alma mater of our three urchins, held its prom last Saturday. It wasn't that long ago when MC and I were watching our kids' grand marches, and hosting or attending pre-dance picture taking parties. The high school girls looked glamorous, as if they had just stepped out from a Milan style show. The boys, with spiffed hair, were almost unrecognizable in their tuxedos and shiny shoes. Dinner at a nice restaurant was part of their festivities, and it wasn't unheard of for the evening's transportation to be provided via limousine or other luxury car. Even before the big weekend, guys earned extra points by the creative, ingenious ways they asked their girls to the dance. Surprise questions on a test (of course, with the help of a teacher), chalk messages on the front yard sidewalk, and poetic invitations hidden in a flower bouquet were some of the methods. BSM even used to arrange for a paddleboat to host the dance on the Mississippi River every other year. The whole evening was an experience which the kids will probably remember for the rest of their lives.
My prom night was also unforgettable, but for slightly different reasons.
I have already briefly introduced you to Father Blaine Cook (Black Matt Lowers The Boom, December 16, 2012), my principal at Bishop Ryan High School in Minot, North Dakota. He was a tough s.o.b. who claimed to maintain "a little black book" in which he kept track of all the indiscretions of which the students were guilty. He also claimed to have connections (read: "spies") all over town whose hobbies were to keep him abreast of all the naughty goings on of the Ryan teens. When I first arrived in the Magic City I was incredulous concerning these claims, but after awhile there was just no denying that the man did, in fact, seem to know everything that was going on in that city of thirty-six thousand people. He somehow also managed to keep on top of things happening at Minot Air Force Base, where several of the Ryanites lived, eleven miles north of town. The "little black book," or the concept of it, was great leverage, especially against those of us who planned on applying for college. For the most part we were not willing to risk Father Cook nuking our post-secondary plans. On the other hand, some of my classmates like Dennis Gorde, Doug Pearson and Doug Picotte could play it a little more loosely. For one thing, they lived out in the country, near Foxholm as I recall, about eighteen miles from school. Father Cook did not have his contacts that far into the hinterlands. For another, those guys were not going to let future plans, whatever they might be, get in the way of enjoying high school life to the max.
There were three Cook Rules for which there was strict liability. One, if you were seen -- by anyone -- smoking while wearing a Ryan letter jacket, you were dead meat. I remember one day he got on the PA system for first period announcements, and he uttered just one sentence: "Douglas Pearson, get up to my office immediately, and don't be wearing your glasses when you walk in." At that moment, we all knew what Doug had been up to the night before and what was now in store for the poor guy. The second Cook Rule is one we still talk about at our class reunions: No couple was allowed to go steady. It is hard to imagine a twenty-first century Catholic high school imposing such a rule, let alone being able to enforce it, but back in 1965, when Blaine Cook ruled the roost, you'd better believe he meant it. (Closed circuit to my sister, Michele: I know you've got some good material on this subject!)
In light of the second Cook Rule, it seemed oxymoronic to discover that Father Cook wanted each and every upper classman to go to the Ryan prom. In fact he made it a command performance, that being the third Cook Rule. No excuse short of admission into the intensive care unit at Trinity Hospital would be grounds for a permitted absence from that dance. It was Cook's belief that the prom is an important part of the total high school experience, and no one should be denied the opportunity, even if the student had little or no desire to go. He correctly figured that if attendance was left up to the whims of the students, there would be dozens of kids who would not go, either because of shyness, finances or the disappointment of not being asked. (In those days, it was unheard of for a girl to ask a boy to the prom, unless he was from another school, or for a girl to go with another girl.) Certainly there are worse fates in life than being directed by your principal to attend your prom. But here is the rub: The prom was on a Thursday night, of all things, and not only was each student's presence at the event a requirement, so was on-time attendance at school the next morning. That last commandment undoubtedly put a crimp on many a post-dance plan.
Hardly any of my friends brought a date to the prom, nor did I. As strange as that may seem, there was some logic to that choice. Each student, upon entering the ballroom, aka student cafeteria, was given a "dance card," which was a little 5" X 7" booklet prepared by an anonymous Prom Committee. Inside the booklet were individual lines numbered # 1 through #12, and on each line was the name of a person of the opposite sex who was to be your partner for the dance that corresponded to the number. For example, if Jeanne Strobel's name was on line # 8 on my dance card, then she and I would partner up for dance # 8. In addition to the twelve numbered dances, there were three extra dances, including the last dance of the night, which were unassigned. You could either sit one or more of those out, or ask someone to join you on the dance floor. In summary, it made no difference if a guy brought a date to the prom, he might get to dance with her only three out of fifteen songs. To be fair, I must point out that the Prom Committee purportedly tried to give the kids a break by assigning their alleged love interest to line # 6 on the dance card. Given the fact that the second Cook Rule forbade couples from going steady, I'd imagine that there was a lot of guess work and tongue wagging going on in the Prom Committee planning sessions.
One of the great mysteries of the entire prom experience was trying to figure out just who was on the Prom Committee. None of my friends knew anyone who claimed (or admitted) to being on the Prom Committee. The best conjecture I heard was that it was a small group of junior girls. Talk about wielding power! The whole notion of dance cards was foreign to me. Even today, when I think of dance cards I can only picture them possibly being used in the South, like at a debutante ball in Tennessee or Georgia. I certainly would not have associated the practice with the state of North Dakota, were I not witness to the usage there myself. Forty-eight years have gone by, and the dance card is still one of the two things I recall the most when I reflect on my prom.
My other favorite recollection did not occur until the next morning, a Friday, when we were obliged to be back in school. Our first period class was phys ed, an 8:30 session with about thirty guys. Ordinarily we would have been dressed in sweats, doing calisthenics or running around the field. But on that particular day our teacher, Mr. Miller, had pity on us due to the late night before. Therefore, he gathered us in the gym and had us sit together on the bleachers, whereupon he commenced delivering a lecture on health. Before he finished his third sentence we all heard the gym doors loudly creak open, and in walked Dennis Gorde and the two Dougs, weaving and staggering their way across the wooden floor to join us at the opposite end. The three amigos were grinning from ear to ear, still wearing their tuxedos with their arms draped around each other. They had never made it back up to Foxholm after the dance. Rather, they had been out all night and then came directly to school.
My prom night was also unforgettable, but for slightly different reasons.
I have already briefly introduced you to Father Blaine Cook (Black Matt Lowers The Boom, December 16, 2012), my principal at Bishop Ryan High School in Minot, North Dakota. He was a tough s.o.b. who claimed to maintain "a little black book" in which he kept track of all the indiscretions of which the students were guilty. He also claimed to have connections (read: "spies") all over town whose hobbies were to keep him abreast of all the naughty goings on of the Ryan teens. When I first arrived in the Magic City I was incredulous concerning these claims, but after awhile there was just no denying that the man did, in fact, seem to know everything that was going on in that city of thirty-six thousand people. He somehow also managed to keep on top of things happening at Minot Air Force Base, where several of the Ryanites lived, eleven miles north of town. The "little black book," or the concept of it, was great leverage, especially against those of us who planned on applying for college. For the most part we were not willing to risk Father Cook nuking our post-secondary plans. On the other hand, some of my classmates like Dennis Gorde, Doug Pearson and Doug Picotte could play it a little more loosely. For one thing, they lived out in the country, near Foxholm as I recall, about eighteen miles from school. Father Cook did not have his contacts that far into the hinterlands. For another, those guys were not going to let future plans, whatever they might be, get in the way of enjoying high school life to the max.
There were three Cook Rules for which there was strict liability. One, if you were seen -- by anyone -- smoking while wearing a Ryan letter jacket, you were dead meat. I remember one day he got on the PA system for first period announcements, and he uttered just one sentence: "Douglas Pearson, get up to my office immediately, and don't be wearing your glasses when you walk in." At that moment, we all knew what Doug had been up to the night before and what was now in store for the poor guy. The second Cook Rule is one we still talk about at our class reunions: No couple was allowed to go steady. It is hard to imagine a twenty-first century Catholic high school imposing such a rule, let alone being able to enforce it, but back in 1965, when Blaine Cook ruled the roost, you'd better believe he meant it. (Closed circuit to my sister, Michele: I know you've got some good material on this subject!)
In light of the second Cook Rule, it seemed oxymoronic to discover that Father Cook wanted each and every upper classman to go to the Ryan prom. In fact he made it a command performance, that being the third Cook Rule. No excuse short of admission into the intensive care unit at Trinity Hospital would be grounds for a permitted absence from that dance. It was Cook's belief that the prom is an important part of the total high school experience, and no one should be denied the opportunity, even if the student had little or no desire to go. He correctly figured that if attendance was left up to the whims of the students, there would be dozens of kids who would not go, either because of shyness, finances or the disappointment of not being asked. (In those days, it was unheard of for a girl to ask a boy to the prom, unless he was from another school, or for a girl to go with another girl.) Certainly there are worse fates in life than being directed by your principal to attend your prom. But here is the rub: The prom was on a Thursday night, of all things, and not only was each student's presence at the event a requirement, so was on-time attendance at school the next morning. That last commandment undoubtedly put a crimp on many a post-dance plan.
Hardly any of my friends brought a date to the prom, nor did I. As strange as that may seem, there was some logic to that choice. Each student, upon entering the ballroom, aka student cafeteria, was given a "dance card," which was a little 5" X 7" booklet prepared by an anonymous Prom Committee. Inside the booklet were individual lines numbered # 1 through #12, and on each line was the name of a person of the opposite sex who was to be your partner for the dance that corresponded to the number. For example, if Jeanne Strobel's name was on line # 8 on my dance card, then she and I would partner up for dance # 8. In addition to the twelve numbered dances, there were three extra dances, including the last dance of the night, which were unassigned. You could either sit one or more of those out, or ask someone to join you on the dance floor. In summary, it made no difference if a guy brought a date to the prom, he might get to dance with her only three out of fifteen songs. To be fair, I must point out that the Prom Committee purportedly tried to give the kids a break by assigning their alleged love interest to line # 6 on the dance card. Given the fact that the second Cook Rule forbade couples from going steady, I'd imagine that there was a lot of guess work and tongue wagging going on in the Prom Committee planning sessions.
One of the great mysteries of the entire prom experience was trying to figure out just who was on the Prom Committee. None of my friends knew anyone who claimed (or admitted) to being on the Prom Committee. The best conjecture I heard was that it was a small group of junior girls. Talk about wielding power! The whole notion of dance cards was foreign to me. Even today, when I think of dance cards I can only picture them possibly being used in the South, like at a debutante ball in Tennessee or Georgia. I certainly would not have associated the practice with the state of North Dakota, were I not witness to the usage there myself. Forty-eight years have gone by, and the dance card is still one of the two things I recall the most when I reflect on my prom.
My other favorite recollection did not occur until the next morning, a Friday, when we were obliged to be back in school. Our first period class was phys ed, an 8:30 session with about thirty guys. Ordinarily we would have been dressed in sweats, doing calisthenics or running around the field. But on that particular day our teacher, Mr. Miller, had pity on us due to the late night before. Therefore, he gathered us in the gym and had us sit together on the bleachers, whereupon he commenced delivering a lecture on health. Before he finished his third sentence we all heard the gym doors loudly creak open, and in walked Dennis Gorde and the two Dougs, weaving and staggering their way across the wooden floor to join us at the opposite end. The three amigos were grinning from ear to ear, still wearing their tuxedos with their arms draped around each other. They had never made it back up to Foxholm after the dance. Rather, they had been out all night and then came directly to school.
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