Wood's Words: Where the Boys Are

Jim F. Wood ‘64

Anyone who has spent even one winter in the North Country knows there comes a time usually by mid-March when the sun shines brightly, temperatures rise, the Raquette flows swiftly, and a heavy burden seems lifted from one’s back. Hibernation over- students appear in T-shirts and cutoffs; porches fill with music and furniture and it’s time to party. But, spring is a tease in this part of the country. Long after the daffodils have bloomed elsewhere, here spring can run away and hide for weeks at a time. Gloomy, wet and breezy conditions can find their way back to the St. Lawrence Valley like a bad hangover after an all night party. It has been known to snow in April and May.

From the large window in the cafeteria that connects the Reynolds House and Cubley House wings, he watched them walking together all the way up the hill. You could tell they enjoyed each other’s company by the way she smiled at him and the way his shoulders shook at something she said. Several times she gave him the “girl hits guy in the shoulder” punch to which he feigned amazing pain. Her jeans were rolled up at the cuffs and were a tight fit. She wore a tan turtleneck sweater and carried a ski parka. Its worn and bent lift tickets bounced along as she swung her hips in synch with their walk. His cutoff shorts were old and faded, and the edges frayed from many washings. He wore no socks and his moccasins were ripped and the soles were thin. His Varsity C sweater was unbuttoned revealing a Navy blue T-shirt with two gold Greek letters on it.

They ambled by the window and it was evident he was pointing out various campus buildings to her. If she had taken her hands from her pockets long enough, you might have glimpsed a SUNY Potsdam class ring with 1963 engraved on it. Rarely did a cross-town co-ed make the trek to the Hill Campus. It was a long walk, but the early spring day was warm and the smell of fresh air, birds chirping and the crimson-hue of new buds on the trees created a time for them where, in the midst of the campus, they were alone with each other.

They circled around to the north and started to pass Brooks House when she stopped him and pointed to the enclosed stairwell that provided access to all three floors. He thought for a moment, looked around and seeing no one, they both ran into the lower floor access atrium. They listened quietly for a moment, then he opened the access door to the ground floor, looked both ways, shook his head, and ran up a flight of stairs with her in tow: The same procedure at the second floor entrance, and again at the third where they stopped and listened. He walked quickly across the hall to his room door and opened it. She ran into his room and he closed the door behind her.

“Lock the door!”

“Can’t,” he said, “it’s busted.”

His roommate was a Canadian student who had gone home to Cornwall for the weekend to be with his family. She began exploring his world; not much in the Canadian’s closet, but all his stuff was pressed and hung neatly in his as you might expect of an engineer and three wooden lacrosse sticks hung from hooks at the rear. She grabbed one and asked him for a demonstration. He took the stick and twirled it a bit, tossing the ball softly against the wall then re-hung it while she began to examine the textbooks; he was a ChemE, his roommate a CE and the books were uninspiring. Each roommate had a bulletin board on which class schedules, team practices, and other personal things were pinned. He blushed when she commented on his family photos, and remarked about his brother’s long blonde hair. Her exploratory mission over, she sat on his bed and he sat on the top of the desk facing her- his feet on the seat of the desk chair twisting it left and right.

From the dorm window, you could see the nearest peaks of the Adirondacks, and one in particular, he said, made him dream about what his life would be like after graduation. He wanted to travel; see things on the other side of that mountain. It was bathed now in burned orange as the sun began to set behind some clouds. Just to give him something to do, he turned on the transistor radio and they listened to Winterhalter’s instrumental version of Canadian Sunset; great timing.

She lay back on the bed, her elbow propped on his pillow at the footboard while she listened to him talk about his future. She had not thought too much about what she would do when she finished school, so it was interesting to let him talk about his plans and options. And she liked to just hear him talk; his Long Island accent mauled a language she had learned to speak properly in Utica.

He ran on at some length until he realized only he was doing the talking. His mind went blank and he turned to face the window, another awkward moment. She hit the edge of the bed several times with her open hand and when he looked, she was smiling at him. Her short auburn hair seemed to frame the pretty face in a warm glow and there was a mischievous twinkle in her green eyes. She tapped the edge of the bed again, and he slid off the desk and sat where her hand had struck. Her eyes now were wide open and he looked into them trying to read their meaning. She rolled gently off her side and raised an eyebrow. Her lips parted… his head lowered toward hers.

He must have heard the footstep an instant before the doorknob turned. Both his arms flexed together in a push that propelled him from the edge of the bed to the door just as it opened. He wedged himself in such a way to impede the intruder’s entry, but his old moccasins had no traction and he slid backward against the leverage of the door opening. They stood staring at each other and finally the captain of the varsity hockey team said, “I’m returning your roommate’s skates, eh. He asked me to get them sharpened for him. Is he here?” Well, no, he was back in Canada and expected Sunday night, but the sharpened skates would be given to him as soon as he returned. The captain scanned the room, grinned, turned around and left.

The promising and tender moment had passed.

He knew his face was beet red; he was caught; disciplinary actions would follow- maybe dismissal. He turned to say something, but the bed was empty! He looked under both beds and finally in his closet where he saw all his clothes piled up in a heap on the bottom. And, except for the turned up cuff and low cut sneaker, would not have recognized the existence of a person so completely camouflaged. Maybe she hadn’t been seen after all.

They left the closet a mess and ran down the stairs, less concerned about being seen as getting out of the building. He walked a little too quickly for her, head down, hands stuffed in his pockets. She complained and he slowed down to let her catch up. She slipped her hand under his elbow to hold him in control, and looked up at him, her eyes bright with youth and innocence, and happiness. He felt her warmth against him and their walk resumed as if the thirty-minute interlude had never occurred. Neither of them saw the athlete standing across the street behind the old oak.

By the spring of 1961, it had become fashionable for college students to go somewhere for spring break, and “somewhere” was not home. Connie Francis and Yvette Mimieux appeared together in the 1960 hit movie, “Where the Boys Are” and Ft. Lauderdale became THE PLACE to go… and The Elbow Room became THE PLACE to be seen on break. Thousands of students migrated into and out of the town each week over the mid-March to mid-April period. On any single day, there were students from thirty colleges roaming the beach and bars along route 1A.

Motel chains and large hotels did not yet dominate that landscape. Motels near the beach often consisted of a series of connected cinder block buildings- some even two stories- in the shape of an “L”, with the owner’s residence at the driveway entrance. Rooms had one or two beds, a bathroom, maybe a closet, and the door opened onto the parking lot. Keeping track of the comings and goings of guests was impossible. The police were understaffed, the lifeguards were understaffed, the motels were understaffed, it was perfect!

With Lauderdale and its less whimsical weather beckoning, the caravanconsisting of three late 1950s-vintage convertibles, eight fraternity brothers, four sorority sisters, a few torn maps, sandwiches, one guitar, and duffle bags full of beach gear- left Potsdam early Friday afternoon heading generally south. The interstate system of highways was not yet in existence. Congress officially authorized it in 1956, and by 1961 only the New York Thruway, the Pennsylvania Turnpike, and pieces of the New Jersey Turnpike would have been considered interstate links. So by sunset the twelve students had passed the slowly thawing Adirondack Lake Region- Tupper, Long, Blue, Indian and George- pursuing US Route 9 until the Thruway entrance was reached south of Albany. By 1 am Saturday they had reached the intersection of the New Jersey turnpike at the George Washington Bridge and it was time to grab coffee, gas up, look over some maps and change drivers. The southern end of the turnpike ended at the Delaware Memorial Bridge, and they knew the hard slog would start at that point as they picked up US Route 1. Traffic was light; New York City’s silhouette was visible, anchored by the Empire State and Chrysler buildings in mid-town.

The gender breakdown of the caravan was interesting; two cars of two guys and two girls and one car stag. Although at least three of the girl were unattached, the mixture remained unchanged the entire trip. And thus it was that three Canadian and one American (although half-Canadian by parentage) discovered more about each other and their backgrounds than they had learned previously as members of The Brotherhood. Bob told the story of his wooden leg; how a car sideswiped him in his preteen years while riding his bike to school and how he had had to live with an accident that had foreclosed any possibility he would play high school or college sports. Denis (one “n” please) talked about his rough and tumble mining town on the banks of Thunder Bay in northern Ontario where all kids looked to education or sports, or both, as their escape from a tough life and serious health problems before old age. Both young men had a seriousness about them that exceeded their age, but as the trip wore on, the heavy burdens they carried inside from their early youth gave way to a light heartedness and care free happiness that let them experience the pleasure of the trip and the company.

He told his story about growing up on Long Island and what a large high school was like, but on passing the City, he stopped and told them of the magic a teenager could find in Manhattan in the late 1950’s by spending all Friday and Saturday nights at places like Birdland and the Village Vanguard: Of how deep and mellow Joe Williams’ voice was, and that he might sit at your table after a set with a fancy drink and all you could think to do was smile and ask him to sing “Every Day I Have the Blues”, or “Black Coffee” again; and that you knew he and Frank had the same birthday- but Frank was from Jersey and Joe from Georgia. Or of waiting outside Basin Street East for hours in the rain on a Friday night hoping to get a seat for the wind-up set of a group of four jazzmen known as The Dave Brubeck Quartet; then becoming entranced as Brubeck and Desmond played a duet to open “Take Five” while Morello backed on drums until his solo- then taught the drums to speak, finished finally by Eugene Wright, a tall, intense African American with huge fingers who caressed his bass with attention and love until it sang the refrain. The Canadians had never been to the City, so it was important to tell them the story truly and in detail.

It was daylight when the caravan reached Virginia. Washington, DC had been observed from inside the cars, like a museum. The pressure to get to Florida prevented any thought of stopping- even for a photo. By late morning, someone opened a window, and the rush of warm spring air vacated the remaining North Country must in the car. Everyone came alive and jokes began to flow freely. As they continued further south, the colors began to change as if a watercolor had bled incrementally from bottom to top. In the space of 24-hours, late winter became early spring became late spring and by South Carolina it was time to lower the top of each car.

They crossed the railroad tracks in Elgin, South Carolina and stopped at a roadside restaurant advertising itself as having the “Best chicken in the South”.

They had followed US Route 1 since Delaware. In Virginia it became known as Jefferson Davis Highway, so the four in the stag car bringing up the rear decided they should learn the local dialect. Listening to the radio, the Canadians began to do a fair imitation of the accent- ending everything with y’all- and sometimes, just to be sure- eh, seemingly the Canadian ending for all sentences. His Long Island accent was immutable and there was no possibility anything he said would sound southern. In the “Best chicken in the South” restaurant, these antics went unappreciated and if there had not been eight of them, one with a bad limp, plus four girls, there might have been more than stares meet them as they paid the check and left.

As the tops were lowered and covers applied, he noticed Bob had been staring down the road at a nearby traffic light. Bob’s eyesight was excellent. In a driveway less than 100 yards from the intersection was a town police cruiser. The driver held a push button in his hand connected to a thick black cord that ran over to the nearest power pole. Each time a car with out-of-state plates approached the intersection, the light would change quickly from green to yellow to red before the car had a chance to stop. And by the time the out-ofstate driver was 100 yards down the road, the officer had the ticket written, signed and ready to hand him. The caravan waited for 15 minutes until the scam had trapped another driver then fired up the three cars and went through the intersection before the officer had a chance to scam them too. Bye-bye y’all.

Reaching the Florida boarder at 6 am then Jacksonville at 7 am were major milestones until you realize there are still almost 300 miles to go! But US Route 1 was not too crowded and they continued south at a good pace. At Daytona, 1A and Route 1 merge then diverge at the barrier called Merritt Island, where Cape Canaveral is located. The traffic density picked up, but no one cared; you could smell the fresh salty breeze and see the white caps rolling on the hard sand. Hundreds of cars ran up and down the beach; their faces and arms were turning pink and Lauderdale was just a few hours away.

South of Melbourne, they made better time. It was early afternoon, and most of the college crowd had already made landfall or a bar stool somewhere. Northbound traffic picked up as they approached West Palm and Boca- no doubt kids from the prior week whose Break was over and who were hurrying back to recount stories of conquests real and imagined. South of Boca, near Deerfield Beach they gassed up for the last time and jogged east to Route 1A. Their plan was to begin looking for a place to stay as soon as they reached Lauderdale. Big mistake… every bar had a sign saying “College Students Welcome”, every motel had a sign that read “FULL”.

The caravan continued south on US Route 1A, eyes left to espy the beach crowd, eyes right looking for any welcome sign of lodging. At Boynton Beach, they turned east again and the sidewalks and streets were so congested, traffic slowed to a crawl. The in-crowd was easily identifiable by its week-old tan, and healing shoulder peels. The out-crowd was white as a whale, trending very pink. The traffic stopped completely at the corner of E Las Olas Blvd and South Atlantic Blvd. There, on the corner with a thousand college students crammed into every doorway along the beach side and on the second floor balcony, was the very famous Elbow Room. The urge to get out and join was, well, almost irresistible.

Level heads prevailed and the caravan continued south about five miles until happening upon a grouping of log cabins under tall yellow pines. With luck available to the young and unprepared, there were two cabins not rented. One cabin had two bedrooms and four beds the other had three bedrooms and six beds. The girls took the former; the guys stared at each other to see which two would get the floor. Each cabin had a porch, so once the cars were unloaded, porch chairs from the smaller cabin were commandeered for the larger cabin and a porch party began.

In the area that passed as the living room of the larger cabin, there was a wall approximately ten feet long. The ceiling height was about eight feet, yielding a wall area of eighty square feet. Two of the engineers calculated it would require sixty cases of beer to completely re-paper the wall and delegated Denis and Bob to procure the first six cases, ice, and food. By 8 pm the twelve were acclimated to the location and weather. As luck would have it, during the first beer-run, Denis and Bob noticed a bar directly across US RT 1 from the cabins and it was determined they all would explore this place first and leave Lauderdale, and the Elbow Room for the next day. The neon sign screamed “Two Bars, Two Dance Floors, Live Band”. The twelve ambled across the street and walked to the front door.

The two bouncers sized up the approaching group; girls were admitted immediately, followed by one of the bouncers. Then one-by-one the remaining eight went through the scrutiny of the remaining bouncer. Seven were let in and when his turn came, he was denied entry. No reason given- just “you cain’t go in yet.” So he stood there and talked with the guy at the door, even as others came and went, even as some of the caravan returned to check on his status. The bouncer had a soft voice, with a strange drawl and it was difficult to hear him with the sound of the band behind the door. The conversation was awkward in the beginning, but eventually they got around to some personal information and he reprised their trip from Potsdam, particularly the changes in scenery and the members of the caravan. The bouncer was from Oklahoma, which explained the drawl. He hadn’t attended college, but did some farm work after high school. They talked a bit about college sports and the growth of youth soccer and lacrosse in the east. Slowly, he forgot about the others inside, and the conversation became easy as if two friends had met after a long separation.

The bouncer was about six feet tall, blond hair, wide set blue eyes with immense forearms and a thick neck. He had a broad toothy smile, and was quick to laugh under his breath. After an hour it was time to give up and walk back to the cabin. He had drawn a bed in the lottery, so it was either sleep and be wakened when they all returned, or sit on the porch and battle mosquitoes. He chose bed and barely heard the laughter and stumbling about of the other seven guys when they returned after midnight.

The sun had crawled well above the horizon by the time the stag cabin heard sounds other than snoring. Mick “volunteered” to go next door and see how the girls were doing. He returned to announce bikinis were on and they were ready to leave. In the living room you could hear a few cans being opened and discussion about the daily consumption required to actually repaper the long wall with cans. The first two tiers had been set, and the place was beginning to smell like the fraternity house basement. Home, sweet, home.

The trip to the beach was uneventful except for the sun. After the cars left the safety of the tall pines protecting the cabins, the sun beat mercilessly and it would not have been tolerable without sun glasses and large amounts of liquids- some consumable, the rest on shoulders and backs. At 11 am, the beach was not very full, parking was available and the group made its way to a long table in the middle of the beach at which the city fathers requested some identification against which a small plastic tag was issued that allowed free access to the beach for “Spring Break 1961”. Welcome to Ft. Lauderdale. It was immediately evident to the guys that a strategic location for blankets should be chosen that would provide reasonable access to the water, but also on the access path chosen by hundreds of coeds as they paraded along the beach. The suitability of several locations was debated at length until Gerry observed a location about 50 yards from the shore that bisected a normal path from the main entrance of the Elbow Room, which was quickly filling at this hour, and the ocean front. On that spot, the eight Clarkson men and four SUNY Potsdam coeds claimed approximately 100 square feet for beach blankets, two large coolers, three beach umbrellas, six beach chairs, a number of towels borrowed from the cleaning carts at the log cabin location, fraternity and sorority paraphernalia and the guitar.

A collection was taken for sandwiches, and two Canadians scampered away in the direction of the storefronts on 1A, listing noticeably toward the open façade of the Elbow Room. Sandwiches arrived a bit soggy about two hours hence with two new friends from Mississippi State in tow: meet Suzie and Madeline. Hi ya’ll, said the two very tanned bodies wearing bright pink two-piece handkerchiefs. Gerry tuned up the guitar, and started cranking out some music. By three in the afternoon, they had a pretty good party going and a couple of Cornell fraternity brothers showed up with their own cooler and another guitar. Names and phone numbers were exchanged, trips to the water to cool off, limbo contests, stories told and disbelieved, and much singing helped, of course, by the brothers Molson and Budweiser.

The on shore wind blew steady all day and it was only after the sun had definitely decided to head toward Tampa that the redness on shoulders, noses and backs became a subject of discussion. Too late for more lotion, home - grown remedies such as a hot shower, or vinegar were debated with uncertainty as the pain and blisters grew in intensity. Three members of the caravan had Mediterranean ancestry and had tanned in just the afternoon. The balance would have to avoid sun for most of the rest of the trip. And that, apparently, was the special allure of the Elbow Room!

A different bouncer was at the door the second night as the twelve approached. With no ceremony and little attention paid them, he opened the door and they all entered. Indeed there were two dance floors, two bars and a live band. The music was loud and the dance floor in the rear of the club was full of college kids dancing to a Stones tune. As his eyes adjusted slowly to the dimness, he saw the bouncer from the previous night standing together with two other men at the bar closest the door. The one in the middle seemed older and was very much shorter than the other two who looked a little like brothers. He began walking toward the back room bar, when the bouncer turned around and spotted him. “Hey, they let anyone in here!” He turned and looked at the bouncer who wore a wide grin and held his hands out in a sign of compromise. “You’re not mad at me are you?” he asked. Well yes and no; the early sleep was much needed, and the conversation was interesting. “Come on over. Let me buy you a beer.” As he approached, the other two at the bar nodded a hello, and then continued talking with each other, while the bouncer ordered a round of beer for the four of them. “Here’s to a nice Spring Break,” he said. “Sorry about last night. I guess I just wanted someone to talk with.”

If it had been an August afternoon in 1961, the three would have been wearing pinstripes with numbers 7, 8 and 9 on their backs and they would have been standing in the team dugout in the Bronx talking about the home run race that had captured the attention of every sports page editor of every major daily in the country. But it was only late March 1961, and Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra and Roger Maris were quietly enjoying a few beers after a day of spring training at the ballpark outside Ft. Lauderdale. He spent a few minutes talking with Mantle, and turned to leave just as Moose Skowran, the “bouncer” this night, stepped inside with Whitey Ford and Billy Martin along side. “Oh, Oh,” said Mantle, “Trouble’s here now.”

After a gentle pat on Mantle’s shoulder and a nod, he walked away to find the other members of the caravan leaving the New York Yankees to themselves. At various points in the evening, he would look back toward the bar, but they all had left except Skowran and Martin. Martin got a little louder as the night progressed and could be seen doing some wild dancing with various coeds.

It rained the next day giving nine backs and shoulders some respite from the sun. By unanimous vote, they spent most of the day in a nearby Jai Alai fronton where they learned the playing and betting strategies. Jai Alai, a game native to Spain’s Basque region has more frontons in Florida than anywhere else in the world. They stayed until early evening and surprisingly ended up winning over $100. Dinner that night was on Jai Alai.

The week went quickly, as did the blisters, and they settled into a nice daily routine that included the beach and the club across the street. He would see Mantle there from time to time, and if he was “working” the door, or alone inside, he would stop and talk with him about the day at the beach, or Spring Training, or girls. So it came as a big surprise when Friday morning arrived and it was time to pack the cars for the return trip. They headed north on 1A observing the long line of cars in the southbound lane filled with white bodies. The trip back to Potsdam retraced the inbound trip but seemed to go faster, and once they reached New Jersey, the change in temperature was obvious and disheartening.

They arrived in Potsdam Saturday afternoon, stopping first at the SUNY dorms then Brooks House where he collected his stuff from the trunk and climbed the stairs to the third floor. On his desk lay an official looking envelop inside of which was an official looking letter telling him to report to the Dean of Students to discuss a violation of dorm occupancy. Feeling pretty upset, he threw his stuff in the closet and walked downtown to the fraternity house where the balance of the caravan had landed and now was engaged in a much embellished history of the prior week.

She was on the porch and watched him walking up Elm Street. As he climbed the stairs, the hockey player who had delivered the skates stepped from behind a corner and started to laugh. “Hey, did you get summoned to the Dean’s office’” he said loudly. Everyone on the porch began to laugh too and he knew it was a set-up, so he said simply that he had taken the time to call the Dean at home before leaving the Dorm, confessed everything and had been suspended for the balance of the year. Laughter turned to serious expressions, turned to dismay, until, as he walked into the house, he turned and said, “Gottcha!”

Mantle and Maris chased Babe Ruth’s home run record that entire season. He learned later that Mantle had become the highest paid active baseball player two months before they met, signing a $75,000 contract in January 1961. He read the paper every day, and watched as many Yankee games as possible while working two jobs that summer, rooting for the “bouncer” to win the contest. But, late in the season, Mantle succumb to an abscessed hip and Maris finally broke the record. He was vacationing with his family in August 1995, when he heard the news from Baylor University Medical Center in Dallas and recalled that special week 34 years earlier, when one of the “Boys of Summer” stopped him just to have someone to talk with and they had laughed together like tomorrow was a million days away.