This is my last entry in the Claymont series. I have received some wonderful comments, both written and unwritten, so to those people I say thanks. To those who have not shared their thoughts but read the stories anyway, I thank you as well, regardless of your opinions. When I first sat down to write something about Claymont, I honestly did not have a plan. I predicted I would write six installments but honestly had no idea what would comprise those efforts. I suppose I was challenging myself to come up with something off the cuff and creative, and hopefully, I have been able to do that, in some small way.
I hope I have not alienated any denizens of our little town, past and present, by excluding people, places or events that anyone might have hoped or expected to see. But, maybe, just maybe, by not including these items, purposely or not, it has inspired reflection, conversation or debate. Our memories are our own personal scrapbook, and they fill in the gaps between the yellowing photos, diaries and home movies. Life isn't about the big moments, but rather the small ones. I suppose it's the reason why I wrote my first "thing" in the last five minutes of the last class of the last day of my Senior year. I was sitting in Mr. Simpkins's class, waiting for the big hand to hit the finish line when I wrote my first poem, or limerick, if you will, on the desktop with my trusty #2 pencil. It went like this:
Here I sit, slightly jaded;
The days of my youth are almost faded.
Reflecting, I find
In the depths of my mind
Those memories before they have faded.
No, it's not Whitman's "Leaves of Grass," Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar' or even Bob Dylan, and I'm ok with that. It was, however, the first foray into an accidental passion, which has enveloped me these past 25 years.
The Claymont I knew was Greentree, Ashbourne Hills, Radnor Green, Knollwood and the acreage around the high school. It was the train tracks running behind Plum Tree Lane, the baseball fields behind Darley Road Elementary School and the fields behind the high school. Yeah, it seems like everything I enjoyed was behind something else I enjoyed. It was Howard Booker, Ron Messer, Scott Carey and I driving down to Ocean City, Maryland, to watch the high school's Flaming Arrow Marching Band compete in a regional competition. It was Tommy Carroll, Geoff Bishop, Scott Frizzell and I having pizza on my birthday. It was "buying" Jimmy Coffey and Gordie Knowles at the "Freshman/Sophomore Sale" and making them race down the hallways of the school pushing a peanut butter cracker with their noses. It was my first kiss with Carol Tenshaw, street hockey with Ray Butler and playing Dungeons & Dragons with Freddie and Donie Lang. It was watching Penn State beat Miami for the National Championship with Wayne Jamison and Rod Reeves, smoking clove cigarettes with "U-Dog" Seth Andrews and sitting in class with Nicole Williams, making each other laugh so much it hurt. It was putting a spider on Susan Coulston's desk just to watch her scream, having my heart skip a beat every time I say Kelly Deardorff and having my first beer with Mike DeBevec and Wayne. It was all the fantastic school plays put on by Alan Ruth, the bubbly effervescence of Ellie Kwick, and the bone crushing handshakes of Darley Road principal Mr. Lipka and Mr. Miller, the Vice-Principal at P.S. duPont. It was a head-ringing collision at first base that started a friendship with Scott Strazzella, the Little League legend of John Lucas and playing bombardment in gym class. It was trading baseball cards with my second grade teacher, Mrs. Jordan, learning how to write a check in Mr. Evans's class and hitting the highway with Mr. DiStefano and Ron Inglis during my first Driver's Ed road test. It was the wild ebullience of Albert Bucci, the comedy stylings of Eddie Finnegan and the sharp, aggressive humor of John McInnes. It was the warmth and intelligence of Lisa Chieffo, the sincere humanity and compassion of Martha Schilling and the sweet darkness of Billie Carroll, who has only improved with age.
It was my family, my friends, my acquaintances and those who only passed through peripherally. Not everything was daisies and sunshine, to be sure. That's a funny thing about memory - we seem to filter our past through nostalgic eyes, weeding out the bad so we can caress the good. For some reason, I remember the arcane, like how "Seasons In the Sun" was Michelle Lenhoff's favorite song, drinking a Big Gulp filled with Rum & Coke while taking my Biology midterm and the words "Wisdom had no market value" spray painted on the Darley Road overpass. I'll never forget driving around with Ron Fagnelli, Scott Waldman and my brother in Ron's bright yellow muscle car, delivering the Evening Bulletin with Ray and not being invited to Barbara Davis's famous parties in elementary school. And finally, about six or seven of us cramming ourselves into Bruce Lane's little car, Bandit, on the way to school, riding the bus on the first day of Desegregation and the cosmic marveling at the high school planetarium.
Well, that's not finally. I could probably dredge up a thousand more memories, but I'm sure you have your own. That's why this last installment is for you. To anyone else out there who remembers the old Claymont, don't hesitate to add your own stories. I am not the only person to chronicle his or her experiences of our little town. We all have a voice, and it doesn't matter if you can write or think you can't. The important thing is to share, in your own way, your memories, good or bad. We are all amalgamations of our past, the events and people who have moved through our lives.
Thanks for letting me move through yours.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Claymont, Part 5
This was to be the big day. I couldn't believe that I was chosen to pitch the Little League Championship game. After all, I was the team’s first baseman and had only pitched a couple of late innings in a few games that were hopelessly out of reach. But, still, I was uprooted from my treasured position of first base and thrust into the limelight of being the pitcher for our championship match with the hated, vile Braves. This should have been the realization of a fantasy come true, yet I did not embrace it as eagerly as I would have thought. All through the summers of years past, my friend Ray Butler, and I, would play our “dream” games with all-too-predictable, yet still satisfying conclusions: the bases-loaded strikeout in the bottom of the ninth, or the full-count grand slam in game seventh game of the World Series. From morning till night we would play using baseballs whose covers were badly abused from constant use, their pine-battered husks hanging like tongues in the sticky summer air. Even in the evening, the bright lights from nearby Dyer Field, where the older Babe Ruth League kids played, illuminated our quiet, friendly little diamond, giving us at least two more hours of quality baseball.
A little bit of history about Ray. We met one rainy afternoon. My mom was walking me back from Darley Road Elementary School after registering me for Kindergarten and it really started coming down hard. We were halfway up South Walnut Tree Lane in Greentree when a dark station wagon, driven by an eternally smiling woman, drove up next to us. In the back seat was a kid my age with a crew cut and a look of eager determination. It was Ray, and from that day forward, we were the best of friends. Through the years, we embarked on many a mission, most of which would make my mother's hair turn white if she found out. Like the times Ray would steal money from his mom's purse so we could grab a pizza at Vinnie's. Whatever we didn't finish, we would throw at cars, along with crabapples and snowballs, depending on the season. Other times, we would place nails in the street and sit on the curb watching cars run over them. In Winter, we would cruise the neighborhood at night, wielding baseball bats, looking for snowmen to obliterate. But, Ray's favorite thing to do was go into the utility rooms of the local apartment buildings and turn off all the power. I'd be standing outside when there would be a low hum, followed by complete darkness, then the sight of Ray, laughing that maniacal laugh of accomplishment, as he burst through the front door of the building.
But one thing about Ray most people never understood was the fact he wasn't an aggressively evil kid. He wasn't the kind of person to try and intimidate strangers. He only lashed out at those people who gave him a hard time, but to go blow-for-blow with Ray was a mistake. He was endlessly resourceful and constantly scheming. When Ray and I performed mischief, it wasn't because we thought it would harm another human being; rather, it was the fact most of the mischief occurred without a direct victim in our presence that made it exhilarating. For instance, Ray acquired a habit of stealing hood ornaments and license plates. Once, after he was caught, one car was all the way in Massachusetts before he discovered his plate was missing. He would take freshly arrived Playboy magazines from the local Wawa store and hide them in newspapers when he brought them to the counter. Sometimes, we would take discarded Christmas trees from the curb, drag them to the apartments, lean them against a person's door, ring the doorbell and run. He was a menace to all decent people, so maybe that's why we got along so well. One time, while his mother was sitting on the stoop talking to a neighbor, Ray emptied a bucket of water on her head from the upstairs hallway window. I'm just giving you the diluted stories here. In another medium, and after all the proper legal releases have been signed, I have many more stories about Ray. Many, many more.
Anyway, because of an egg-throwing incident, Ray’s parents did not allow him to play in Little League that year. We were both eleven years old and at the supposed prime of our lives and I knew how badly he wanted to play. All I could do during the games while smoothing the dirt around first base would be to watch Ray watching me between pitches as I impatiently awaited a ground ball or pop-up. Mom and Dad would attend a few games and every now and again my older brother, Dave, would drop by for a few innings. Dave was a good player. The year before, his team not only won the championship, but he actually pitched it. He received his gold-sprayed trophy at the year-end banquet and strategically placed it at various locales in the house as a conversation piece. Most of the time, Dave was the initiator of the conversation.
Now, it was my turn to pull on the stiff, dingy, gray Claymont Little League uniform. The material itched like burlap dipped in wet sand, and on top of that, I was issued number 13. This was Little League. However, it seemed everyone was doomed to wearing a gray uniform a size too big. My team was the Royals, who lost to my brother’s team, the Cubs, for the championship the year before.
When camp broke for our first practices, I immediately marked off the first base area and claimed it in my name, guarding it like a pit-bull against all comers. I looked over the team as our names were being called out by Mr. Shaffer, our coach: “Richard Cross” – I hated him, he thought he was a tough guy – what a jerk; “Liz Woods” – oh great, a girl, for Christ’s sake; “Bobby Cook” –wonderful, the neighborhood thug; “Bunky Hogan” – what kind of name is “Bunky?” They probably thought I was a creep, too; and I probably was. The other teams in the league got the popular kids. I got skid row. Our “stadium” was a chain link fence leaning on cement-encrusted poles with an infield that looked like Normandy Beach on D-Day.
The season opened with the distribution of a fifteen-game schedule which mapped out game times and opponents and probably adorned every Little Leaguer’s refrigerator along with report cards and their mother’s homemade kitchen magnets. The Braves were the team to beat, but no one could beat them. Halfway through the season, the league decided to split the schedule into two halves. The winners of each abbreviated schedule would then battle it out for the championship. With our club adrift at 4-4, we couldn't be happier. The Braves, at 8-0, didn't care for it too much, but no one liked them anyway. My play was gradually improving, yet I would still blame my blatant errors on others and vehemently argue a low-ball strike even if I DID swing at it. Striking out was never cool. It was even worse when that cute girl, Marie London, was watching.
Coming to the conclusion of the second half of the season, we were tied for the lead with, who else, the Braves. I hit a home run against them that I still force people to hear me describe. There was going to be a one-game playoff. If they win, it’s all over. If we win, it’s playoff time. Legend has it that the game was a bloody street brawl replete with Olympian virtue, superhuman fortitude, and otherworldly stamina. Actually, we won 6-5 in a rather dull, yet close-scoring game.
After the game, I played Home Run Derby with Ray. Even though I played Little League, Ray and I could always squeeze a few hours of playing Home Run Derby into the day. The rules were simple: whoever hit the most over the fence after 100 swings was the victor. The simple accomplishment of being able to choose one’s own pitches to swing at, without the hindrance of an umpire, and the complete absence of pressure of a game situation, made these contests relaxing, and gave us an outlet to play baseball at our own pace.
Going into the best-of-three championship, the talk through the hallways in school (school ended in late June that year) was how badly we'd get stomped. They “let us off easy” so they could bludgeon us in the playoffs. And they did in the first game. They beat us so bad that coach put me in to pitch the final two innings. They didn't score on me, but I thought nothing of it. Someone else obviously did. The second game entered the bottom of the seventh (and final, in Little League) inning with us tied 12-12. I was on third base, and if I were allowed to steal, I would have blazed down the line. The pitcher threw a wild pitch and I scored the winning run. Or so I thought. The Braves’ coach said I left too soon and I was duly ejected from the game while introducing the umpire to some of my recently acquired X-rated vocabulary. Bobby Cook moved up on the pitch and scored on another wild pitch. We won, but I was not the hero this time. To make matters worse, Ray was grounded that day for batting golf balls into the neighborhood from his front step.
As I kicked my glove along the path leading away from the diamond, Mr. Shaffer called to me in a voice that rattled my bones “Kevin, come over here!” On no. I'm kicked off the team for sure. “Kevin, I want you to pitch Friday’s game. Can you do it?” I was flabbergasted I called everyone who possessed a seven-digit phone number to inform them about my pending opportunity, but the first person I called was Ray. He promised me he would be there – that’s all I needed to hear.
The next afternoon, Ray convinced his mom to let him see me play. Dad, the shutterbug, took a picture of Ray and me out front of my house. Before the game, as I was wont to do, I would have a catch with Ray rather than my teammates. I was more comfortable throwing to him. Also I could always count on him to chase the ball whenever it went down the hill beyond the right field fence. After four innings, we were up 8-1, due to some clutch hitting on our part and bad fielding on theirs. I wasn't throwing smoke, more like a shot-put motion, but at least it was working. By this time, my brother Dave ventured over to the other field to talk to some girls. Mom and Dad returned home and the crowd was thinning out. Still glued to his seat was Ray. Even when the game ended in a stunning 12-1 rout, the first person I celebrated with was Ray, as the euphoria spread throughout the dugout. I received my little brass trophy labeled “Champions” and proudly displayed it in the various locales Dave so unknowingly mapped out for me.
A few years later, Ray moved to Florida. My trophy ended up in a box in the basement with some junk from my old desk. Last I heard, Ray was jail and I don't remember why. We haven't talked for years, and, for all I know, he might be dead. In fact, I think he is. I came across the old box of junk recently. Inside, I found my old trophy, the old game ball from that memorable afternoon, more junk, and the tattered, dog-eared photo taken of Ray and me on the day of the championship game. I put the trophy, the ball, the junk, back in the box. But I'll always keep that photo near me for the rest of my life
A little bit of history about Ray. We met one rainy afternoon. My mom was walking me back from Darley Road Elementary School after registering me for Kindergarten and it really started coming down hard. We were halfway up South Walnut Tree Lane in Greentree when a dark station wagon, driven by an eternally smiling woman, drove up next to us. In the back seat was a kid my age with a crew cut and a look of eager determination. It was Ray, and from that day forward, we were the best of friends. Through the years, we embarked on many a mission, most of which would make my mother's hair turn white if she found out. Like the times Ray would steal money from his mom's purse so we could grab a pizza at Vinnie's. Whatever we didn't finish, we would throw at cars, along with crabapples and snowballs, depending on the season. Other times, we would place nails in the street and sit on the curb watching cars run over them. In Winter, we would cruise the neighborhood at night, wielding baseball bats, looking for snowmen to obliterate. But, Ray's favorite thing to do was go into the utility rooms of the local apartment buildings and turn off all the power. I'd be standing outside when there would be a low hum, followed by complete darkness, then the sight of Ray, laughing that maniacal laugh of accomplishment, as he burst through the front door of the building.
But one thing about Ray most people never understood was the fact he wasn't an aggressively evil kid. He wasn't the kind of person to try and intimidate strangers. He only lashed out at those people who gave him a hard time, but to go blow-for-blow with Ray was a mistake. He was endlessly resourceful and constantly scheming. When Ray and I performed mischief, it wasn't because we thought it would harm another human being; rather, it was the fact most of the mischief occurred without a direct victim in our presence that made it exhilarating. For instance, Ray acquired a habit of stealing hood ornaments and license plates. Once, after he was caught, one car was all the way in Massachusetts before he discovered his plate was missing. He would take freshly arrived Playboy magazines from the local Wawa store and hide them in newspapers when he brought them to the counter. Sometimes, we would take discarded Christmas trees from the curb, drag them to the apartments, lean them against a person's door, ring the doorbell and run. He was a menace to all decent people, so maybe that's why we got along so well. One time, while his mother was sitting on the stoop talking to a neighbor, Ray emptied a bucket of water on her head from the upstairs hallway window. I'm just giving you the diluted stories here. In another medium, and after all the proper legal releases have been signed, I have many more stories about Ray. Many, many more.
Anyway, because of an egg-throwing incident, Ray’s parents did not allow him to play in Little League that year. We were both eleven years old and at the supposed prime of our lives and I knew how badly he wanted to play. All I could do during the games while smoothing the dirt around first base would be to watch Ray watching me between pitches as I impatiently awaited a ground ball or pop-up. Mom and Dad would attend a few games and every now and again my older brother, Dave, would drop by for a few innings. Dave was a good player. The year before, his team not only won the championship, but he actually pitched it. He received his gold-sprayed trophy at the year-end banquet and strategically placed it at various locales in the house as a conversation piece. Most of the time, Dave was the initiator of the conversation.
Now, it was my turn to pull on the stiff, dingy, gray Claymont Little League uniform. The material itched like burlap dipped in wet sand, and on top of that, I was issued number 13. This was Little League. However, it seemed everyone was doomed to wearing a gray uniform a size too big. My team was the Royals, who lost to my brother’s team, the Cubs, for the championship the year before.
When camp broke for our first practices, I immediately marked off the first base area and claimed it in my name, guarding it like a pit-bull against all comers. I looked over the team as our names were being called out by Mr. Shaffer, our coach: “Richard Cross” – I hated him, he thought he was a tough guy – what a jerk; “Liz Woods” – oh great, a girl, for Christ’s sake; “Bobby Cook” –wonderful, the neighborhood thug; “Bunky Hogan” – what kind of name is “Bunky?” They probably thought I was a creep, too; and I probably was. The other teams in the league got the popular kids. I got skid row. Our “stadium” was a chain link fence leaning on cement-encrusted poles with an infield that looked like Normandy Beach on D-Day.
The season opened with the distribution of a fifteen-game schedule which mapped out game times and opponents and probably adorned every Little Leaguer’s refrigerator along with report cards and their mother’s homemade kitchen magnets. The Braves were the team to beat, but no one could beat them. Halfway through the season, the league decided to split the schedule into two halves. The winners of each abbreviated schedule would then battle it out for the championship. With our club adrift at 4-4, we couldn't be happier. The Braves, at 8-0, didn't care for it too much, but no one liked them anyway. My play was gradually improving, yet I would still blame my blatant errors on others and vehemently argue a low-ball strike even if I DID swing at it. Striking out was never cool. It was even worse when that cute girl, Marie London, was watching.
Coming to the conclusion of the second half of the season, we were tied for the lead with, who else, the Braves. I hit a home run against them that I still force people to hear me describe. There was going to be a one-game playoff. If they win, it’s all over. If we win, it’s playoff time. Legend has it that the game was a bloody street brawl replete with Olympian virtue, superhuman fortitude, and otherworldly stamina. Actually, we won 6-5 in a rather dull, yet close-scoring game.
After the game, I played Home Run Derby with Ray. Even though I played Little League, Ray and I could always squeeze a few hours of playing Home Run Derby into the day. The rules were simple: whoever hit the most over the fence after 100 swings was the victor. The simple accomplishment of being able to choose one’s own pitches to swing at, without the hindrance of an umpire, and the complete absence of pressure of a game situation, made these contests relaxing, and gave us an outlet to play baseball at our own pace.
Going into the best-of-three championship, the talk through the hallways in school (school ended in late June that year) was how badly we'd get stomped. They “let us off easy” so they could bludgeon us in the playoffs. And they did in the first game. They beat us so bad that coach put me in to pitch the final two innings. They didn't score on me, but I thought nothing of it. Someone else obviously did. The second game entered the bottom of the seventh (and final, in Little League) inning with us tied 12-12. I was on third base, and if I were allowed to steal, I would have blazed down the line. The pitcher threw a wild pitch and I scored the winning run. Or so I thought. The Braves’ coach said I left too soon and I was duly ejected from the game while introducing the umpire to some of my recently acquired X-rated vocabulary. Bobby Cook moved up on the pitch and scored on another wild pitch. We won, but I was not the hero this time. To make matters worse, Ray was grounded that day for batting golf balls into the neighborhood from his front step.
As I kicked my glove along the path leading away from the diamond, Mr. Shaffer called to me in a voice that rattled my bones “Kevin, come over here!” On no. I'm kicked off the team for sure. “Kevin, I want you to pitch Friday’s game. Can you do it?” I was flabbergasted I called everyone who possessed a seven-digit phone number to inform them about my pending opportunity, but the first person I called was Ray. He promised me he would be there – that’s all I needed to hear.
The next afternoon, Ray convinced his mom to let him see me play. Dad, the shutterbug, took a picture of Ray and me out front of my house. Before the game, as I was wont to do, I would have a catch with Ray rather than my teammates. I was more comfortable throwing to him. Also I could always count on him to chase the ball whenever it went down the hill beyond the right field fence. After four innings, we were up 8-1, due to some clutch hitting on our part and bad fielding on theirs. I wasn't throwing smoke, more like a shot-put motion, but at least it was working. By this time, my brother Dave ventured over to the other field to talk to some girls. Mom and Dad returned home and the crowd was thinning out. Still glued to his seat was Ray. Even when the game ended in a stunning 12-1 rout, the first person I celebrated with was Ray, as the euphoria spread throughout the dugout. I received my little brass trophy labeled “Champions” and proudly displayed it in the various locales Dave so unknowingly mapped out for me.
A few years later, Ray moved to Florida. My trophy ended up in a box in the basement with some junk from my old desk. Last I heard, Ray was jail and I don't remember why. We haven't talked for years, and, for all I know, he might be dead. In fact, I think he is. I came across the old box of junk recently. Inside, I found my old trophy, the old game ball from that memorable afternoon, more junk, and the tattered, dog-eared photo taken of Ray and me on the day of the championship game. I put the trophy, the ball, the junk, back in the box. But I'll always keep that photo near me for the rest of my life
Monday, January 19, 2009
Claymont, Part 4
Claymont is a place of character and characters. From the Darley House to the Walking Monk to Knollwood to the civic pride that took a hit when the high school closed in 1991, Claymont has always had a reputation as a small, feisty town willing to drop the gloves with anyone who would speak ill of it; well, as long as you lived outside of Claymont. For those of us who have lived and still live there, we can badmouth it all we want. It's like family. I can call my brother a jerk, but if you do, I'll knock your block off.
One of our biggest points of pride has been in our eating establishments, and I think anyone who knows anything about cheesesteaks will agree, the Claymont Steak Shop made the best, not only in town, but also in the entire universe. I haven't been there in a while, so I cannot vouch for it's present quality, but when I lived there...MAN...it was the closest thing to a naked disco for your mouth. The steak was chopped so fine and savory, the cheese was the perfect texture and the roll... Well, one thing we East Coasters ALL know about the cheesesteak is the fact the roll MAKES the sandwich. More than the meat or the cheese, it was the roll that provided the ultimate whammy when your lower mandible collided with your upper row of teeth. Wresting the sandwich from your jaw was the ultimate in penultimate glory. The final bell was the bite remaining in your mouth, like a prisoner at a firing squad awaiting his doom. For a split second, your brain switches on and all the senses heighten to such a degree your face changes color. That first chew, like the first sip from a cold beer or the first drag from a fresh pack of cigarettes, is indescribable to outsiders. I've had cheesesteaks from all the best places in the state and the Philadelphia area, and there have been some fine, fine sandwiches, don't get me wrong; however, none could ever compare with a Claymont Steak Shop offering. None. In fact, even ESPN the Magazine had an article about 10 or so years ago stating the "100 Things You Must Do to Be a Fan." Besides catching a foul ball (done) and running with the bulls (um, no), grabbing a cheesesteak from the Claymont Steak Shop and hauling it to the Vet for an Eagles or Phillies game was on the list. Don't believe me? Last I checked, the article was still on the wall at the restaurant.
Some things, sadly, have passed on into memory. Remember Gino's? It was a fast food restaurant similar to Burger King and McDonald's. It was located in the same shopping center as Hoy's 5 & 10. I always ordered the Gino's Giant. Remember the commercial? "Everybody goes to Gino's, cause Gino's is the place to go-o-o..." Ok, it's not Shakespeare. Hell, it's not even Rain Man, but I remember they would show crayon pictures sent in by kids at the stores. Mine never made it to TV because, well, honestly, I never submitted one. Gino's was replaced by Roy Rogers, which was replaced by...well, I'm not sure. Maybe I'll check it out next weekend. I remembers my friend, Brian Tucker, worked at Roy Rogers. Brian was a good friend until he told us he couldn't play hockey one day, so my best friend, Ray Butler, and I smashed his trashcans with our hockey sticks. Good times. Sorry about that, Brian. I'll tell you about Ray in the next installment. I could write a book about our adventures. Stay tuned. You don't want to miss that.
Besides the Claymont Steak Shop, there was one other place you could get what amounted to a legendary sandwich - DiCostanza's. Those weren't just hoagies they made. They were lunch meat sandwiches the size of telephone poles. It's the kind of sandwich Paul Bunyan would eat all day long before saying, "Ok, I'm out," still leaving half a hoagie to carry home with him. He would never offer any to Babe the Blue Ox, because, let's be honest here, Babe was no cannibal. Babe was also a herbivore, so it's a mute point anyway. This sucker was SO packed with meat and cheese that the roll could only close over half of it. Once, I was carrying one home, accidentally dropped it on the street and it created a hole so large in the road a fire truck fell in. I never heard the crash at the bottom so my guess it's still falling through the Earth's core. Somewhere, Satan is hiring a whole pit of demons to jump on the roll like an over-packed suitcase just so he can take a bite. Oh, and this was a small hoagie. DiCostanza's - or Deke's for short - could feed the entire population of China and Japan for several generations with one sandwich, and that includes the Sumo wrestlers.
I have so many memories about my old hometown without a mayor, and the food joints that etched those memories. Believe me, I received just as much enjoyment out of trying (and succeeding) to eat a Big Mac in three bites in the McDonald's parking lot with my other best friend, Rod Reeves, Harry Dougherty and Dave Stepanek, late night chow fests with Wayne Jamison and Seth Andrews at Howard Johnson's, going to the Totem Pole with my first real high school crush, Alicia Kulp, to buy whatever candy could rot my teeth and eating hot dogs and Swedish Fish on the bleachers with Ed Chichorichi and Scott Strazzella after one of our Little League games. And let's not forget the inimitable enterprising James Priester, Jerry Lee and Nate McQueen, who used to make a mint selling candy they bought with lunch money and selling it to us in school at a 500% mark up. Food is life; food is family. It springs to mind old memories and forges new chapters.
Today, all I really get to see of the old town is my brother Dave's house and my Dad's. The ghosts of people and places from the past still echo soundly through the transom of my mind. My senses are ever keen and I can still hear the rustling of the thin wax paper from the hot dogs at the Little League concession stand, the magma-like heat of hot chocolate on a crisp Autumn afternoon watching Claymont High School battle another Flight B opponent at the football field, the awe-inspiring sight of a banana split being delicately handed over from the driver of the Custard Hut truck and the heft of the pears we used to steal off the trees from a house just off the railroad tracks while being chased by the owner. But, smell is the sense that keeps boomeranging our senses. Studies have shown the sense of smell is the one most strongly associated with memory. Even today, when I smell a funnel cake, I think back to the days of pouring hundreds of thousands of dollars into the coffers of the Holy Rosary Carnival. All in all, I don't regret a single nickel I have pumped into the local economy over the years because it has paid me back many times over in the memories it has created. I think maybe I'll go visit my brother Dave next weekend for some light reminiscing, as only siblings can do.
And yes, I'll bring my wallet.
One of our biggest points of pride has been in our eating establishments, and I think anyone who knows anything about cheesesteaks will agree, the Claymont Steak Shop made the best, not only in town, but also in the entire universe. I haven't been there in a while, so I cannot vouch for it's present quality, but when I lived there...MAN...it was the closest thing to a naked disco for your mouth. The steak was chopped so fine and savory, the cheese was the perfect texture and the roll... Well, one thing we East Coasters ALL know about the cheesesteak is the fact the roll MAKES the sandwich. More than the meat or the cheese, it was the roll that provided the ultimate whammy when your lower mandible collided with your upper row of teeth. Wresting the sandwich from your jaw was the ultimate in penultimate glory. The final bell was the bite remaining in your mouth, like a prisoner at a firing squad awaiting his doom. For a split second, your brain switches on and all the senses heighten to such a degree your face changes color. That first chew, like the first sip from a cold beer or the first drag from a fresh pack of cigarettes, is indescribable to outsiders. I've had cheesesteaks from all the best places in the state and the Philadelphia area, and there have been some fine, fine sandwiches, don't get me wrong; however, none could ever compare with a Claymont Steak Shop offering. None. In fact, even ESPN the Magazine had an article about 10 or so years ago stating the "100 Things You Must Do to Be a Fan." Besides catching a foul ball (done) and running with the bulls (um, no), grabbing a cheesesteak from the Claymont Steak Shop and hauling it to the Vet for an Eagles or Phillies game was on the list. Don't believe me? Last I checked, the article was still on the wall at the restaurant.
Some things, sadly, have passed on into memory. Remember Gino's? It was a fast food restaurant similar to Burger King and McDonald's. It was located in the same shopping center as Hoy's 5 & 10. I always ordered the Gino's Giant. Remember the commercial? "Everybody goes to Gino's, cause Gino's is the place to go-o-o..." Ok, it's not Shakespeare. Hell, it's not even Rain Man, but I remember they would show crayon pictures sent in by kids at the stores. Mine never made it to TV because, well, honestly, I never submitted one. Gino's was replaced by Roy Rogers, which was replaced by...well, I'm not sure. Maybe I'll check it out next weekend. I remembers my friend, Brian Tucker, worked at Roy Rogers. Brian was a good friend until he told us he couldn't play hockey one day, so my best friend, Ray Butler, and I smashed his trashcans with our hockey sticks. Good times. Sorry about that, Brian. I'll tell you about Ray in the next installment. I could write a book about our adventures. Stay tuned. You don't want to miss that.
Besides the Claymont Steak Shop, there was one other place you could get what amounted to a legendary sandwich - DiCostanza's. Those weren't just hoagies they made. They were lunch meat sandwiches the size of telephone poles. It's the kind of sandwich Paul Bunyan would eat all day long before saying, "Ok, I'm out," still leaving half a hoagie to carry home with him. He would never offer any to Babe the Blue Ox, because, let's be honest here, Babe was no cannibal. Babe was also a herbivore, so it's a mute point anyway. This sucker was SO packed with meat and cheese that the roll could only close over half of it. Once, I was carrying one home, accidentally dropped it on the street and it created a hole so large in the road a fire truck fell in. I never heard the crash at the bottom so my guess it's still falling through the Earth's core. Somewhere, Satan is hiring a whole pit of demons to jump on the roll like an over-packed suitcase just so he can take a bite. Oh, and this was a small hoagie. DiCostanza's - or Deke's for short - could feed the entire population of China and Japan for several generations with one sandwich, and that includes the Sumo wrestlers.
I have so many memories about my old hometown without a mayor, and the food joints that etched those memories. Believe me, I received just as much enjoyment out of trying (and succeeding) to eat a Big Mac in three bites in the McDonald's parking lot with my other best friend, Rod Reeves, Harry Dougherty and Dave Stepanek, late night chow fests with Wayne Jamison and Seth Andrews at Howard Johnson's, going to the Totem Pole with my first real high school crush, Alicia Kulp, to buy whatever candy could rot my teeth and eating hot dogs and Swedish Fish on the bleachers with Ed Chichorichi and Scott Strazzella after one of our Little League games. And let's not forget the inimitable enterprising James Priester, Jerry Lee and Nate McQueen, who used to make a mint selling candy they bought with lunch money and selling it to us in school at a 500% mark up. Food is life; food is family. It springs to mind old memories and forges new chapters.
Today, all I really get to see of the old town is my brother Dave's house and my Dad's. The ghosts of people and places from the past still echo soundly through the transom of my mind. My senses are ever keen and I can still hear the rustling of the thin wax paper from the hot dogs at the Little League concession stand, the magma-like heat of hot chocolate on a crisp Autumn afternoon watching Claymont High School battle another Flight B opponent at the football field, the awe-inspiring sight of a banana split being delicately handed over from the driver of the Custard Hut truck and the heft of the pears we used to steal off the trees from a house just off the railroad tracks while being chased by the owner. But, smell is the sense that keeps boomeranging our senses. Studies have shown the sense of smell is the one most strongly associated with memory. Even today, when I smell a funnel cake, I think back to the days of pouring hundreds of thousands of dollars into the coffers of the Holy Rosary Carnival. All in all, I don't regret a single nickel I have pumped into the local economy over the years because it has paid me back many times over in the memories it has created. I think maybe I'll go visit my brother Dave next weekend for some light reminiscing, as only siblings can do.
And yes, I'll bring my wallet.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Claymont, Part 3
As I might have mentioned before, I graduated from Claymont High School in 1984, and if I didn't mention it, well, there you go. It's hard to believe it has been a quarter century since I was worried about my senior thesis, taking my SATs and pressing in my fake-me-out mustache for the senior portrait. The passage of time brings with it perspective - a perspective that isn't available when you're 18 years old for the simple fact you think you know everything there is to know about the world at that age. I regarded my high school years with equal parts of enjoyment and out-and-out disdain. Looking back now, I wish I had the perspective of my present mind set. I would have done more, taken more chances and maybe, just maybe, actually studied.
High school is a little community unto itself. The characters, socializing and the teachers. Ah, the teachers. Is there a more thankless job in the civilian world than teaching high school students? For anyone out there presently in high school who may actually be reading this, you'll realize in short order just what an annoying, hormonal drama-monger you are right now, when a few more years pass. Teaching is the equivalent of being a first-time lion tamer except it happens every day at the chalk board. Throughout my life, I have had some fairly nondescript teachers, but I have also had some extraordinary instructors, as well. Ron Eshleman was my 10th grade Science teacher. To get an idea of who he was, try to imagine Emeril Lagasse without the Cajun patois. The man was brilliant and had boundless energy. He demanded accountability and knew his stuff, but the thing I remember most fondly about him is what he told us on the first day of class - "People (teachers always called the students "people"), I don't care if you walk out of here at the end of the year knowing absolutely nothing about science. What I hope you are able to do, however, is learn how to THINK." It's a funny thing, though. I actually do remember a lot about that class and not just because of the handy mnemonics he gave us. But, if you stepped out of line, he really gave it to you. Once, when he was describing how two Nitrogen (periodic symbol "N") split into two, I said, under my breath, "Hmm, split Ns," he wheel around and rocketed a piece of chalk at me that split into a zillion pieces over my head. He said, "You know, for a jackass, you're pretty good." Then he pointed towards the door and I had a chance to socialize with the principal, Mr. Fred Wrigley, for the 100th time.
Fred Wrigley. I'm not sure if this is true or not, but legend had it he was a drill instructor in a previous time in his life. It certainly wouldn't surprise me. Infamous for the way he bellowed the word "soph-o-mores!" to us clueless locker jockeys, the man was a take-no-guff disciplinarian. However, he was one of the kindest, most compassionate people I had ever met at that age. Each year, the senior class would pull what is known as the "Senior Stunt." The class of 1983 filled up Mr. Wrigley's office with 1,983 balloons. It was quite a sight. In fact, it made the front page of the fledgling USAToday, with Mr. Wrigley sitting at his desk surrounded by a mass of inflated latex. As a member of the class of 1984, there was no way we were going to top that, let alone get national exposure, so we decorated his ceiling with 1,984 Wrigley's gum wrappers. Lame, I know, but the gesture had to be made.
Sadly, Mr. Wrigley passed away not long after I graduated. His place was assumed by James Bruton, who had a bit of Smothers Brothers-type routine with the math teacher, Donald Fantine. The two of them were strict taskmasters, but, when the atmosphere was more relaxed, they were like a well-polished comedy team, lobbing hilarious insults at each other and generally adding a lot of color to the hallways. I could really write for hours upon hours about the memorable teachers I had, but for those who attended dear old CHS, you remember them, and for those who did not, you probably had similar people in your educational staff. Without referring to my heavily dust-covered yearbook, I would just like to thank the following teachers off the top of my head for making me the person I am today - for better or worse: the vivacious Susan Stetler, the booming Grant Dunn, the patient-beyond-reason William Chipman, the favorite uncle-type James Ruth, the kindly English teacher James Brasure, the motherly Virginia Burins, the uncompromising excellence of Michael Roccia, the eagerly determined Helene Jouan, the whimsical Robert Guy, the mystical Donald Crawford, the lovable grouchiness of one of the best basketball coaches in the state, Tom DiStefano, who had the unenviable task of teaching me to parallel park, the laid-back brilliance of Rich McKinnon, the bubbly effervescence of the late, indefatigable Gertrude Jenkins and the genuine enjoyer of life, art teacher and senior class advisor, Alan "Bags" Ruth, who, until the day I die, will remain one of my favorite people of all time. Lastly, the teacher all CHS alumni will never forget, the person I could not stand as a student until my last day of class as a senior, when it dawned on me just what an incredible personality he was, Mr. Howard Simpkins. Mr. Simpkins was a taskmaster extraordinaire, with a haircut from a 1950's industrial arts classroom video, rocket scientist eyeglasses and a system of demerits that would bring a Hell's Angel to his knees. He was one of those guys who wore a short-sleeve shirt and tie. It's difficult to elucidate the level of influence he has had on students over the years, and even me, a lover of words, cannot find the exact words to convey just how valuable the life lessons he taught us. To Mr. Simpkins, Mr. Eshleman, all the teachers of CHS, my previous teachers and to all teachers, past, present and future in this world, my sincerest thanks and appreciation. No matter what they are paying you, it is not enough.
Like any high school, cliques develop and evolve. I had a few which I rotated through, like most people seem to say ("I never really belonged to any one group; I got along with everyone." Sound familiar?). The big, broad clique, the kind represented in every high school-based movie of white kids, was always the most eventful. I suppose it's why so many movies are based on that social grouping. We would hang out behind the high school on crisp Autumn nights, passing around half pints of Jack Daniel's, watching the youth football leagues or playing Frisbee and chewing tobacco in the parking lot of Gebhart's Funeral Home or infest the McDonald's on Philadelphia Pike, having a great time laughing, cutting up and soaking up the magnificence of youth, all the while complaining how bored we were. The events of the season, however, occurred when someone's parents went out of town. Everyone descended upon that house in a Bacchanalian eruption of unleashed exhuberance. Whether it was Lynn Newton's house, Mark LaVere's or the epic festivals at Marie London's, everyone who was everyone, in our world, was there. I remember bringing a loaf of Italian bread to Mark's house because, whenever I drank, I would develop a humongous appetite. As if I didn't normally attract my share of derisive gazes, the Italian bread was the clincher. The fact Mark's house was smack dab next to the park was a dangerous formula. Imagine a horde of drunken high school students on the swings, leaping at the apogee up the upswing, people puking whilst hanging upside down on the jungle gym and teenaged girls screeching, "Stop! Stop!" while being violently swung on the little red roundabout, and you have what amounts to a typical Claymont high school teenager party.
High school is a heady time. For some, it's the summit of their lives. Many people never experience the glory of life as they did in their high school years. Others, cocooned in their chrysalis of shyness and late blooming consider their high school years the worst time of their lives. For me, it was a little from Column A and a little from Column B. You see, the students who graduated from Claymont High School more or less grew up together. We went to Darley Road, Maple Lane or Green Street Elementary Schools, attended Claymont Middle School and/or P.S. DuPont Middle School and, eventually, dear old CHS. Many students were integrated into the environment with the advent of busing in the late 1970s while others came from some of the Catholic or private schools. The youth programs, such as Little League, football and basketball leagues further solidified the student community into an inescapable celebration for some and a prison for others. You see, with that environment, something humiliating that happened to you in third grade traveled with you until 12th. You might have changed as a person, but the perception of you did not. It's a cruel truth to face in the most fragile part of a boy's or girl's life. The pressure can create a diamond or a lump of coal. We were all geniuses in high school, and since this is the only life we knew, we figured we knew all about life. How wrong we were, just as wrong as the students of today will find themselves in due time.
Personally, I knew I could not wait to get out. I wanted a fresh start and to put the distasteful elements of my standardized schooling behind me. I didn't want to be around these people any longer. So, it might come as a bit of a surprise, when upon graduation, sitting on stage, I began to bawl like a grandmother. Where was this coming from? Why was I shedding tears for something I detested so much? In the movie , "Conspiracy," (a brilliant and chilling movie about the Holocaust) the one dissenting figure, Dr. Kritzinger, tells a story about how a man he knew, who lost the mother he adored. At her funeral, he could not find the tears; however, when his father, a man he hated, died, he wept uncontrollably. The man in the story, apparently, had been driven by hate his whole life, so when the object of his hate, his father, passed away, his hate died with him. He felt he had nothing else for which to live. I suppose that's how I felt, up on that stage 25 years ago. It's taken the mellowing of age, the appreciation of perspective and the understanding, that, despite knowing everything back then, I realize I know almost nothing today, to not only offer my forgiveness, but my apologies to the people, the institution and the life I had detested so many years ago. When I run into an old classmate these days, I don't think about the bad times; rather, I embrace the good times, the laughs of Margie Eachus and Bev Deloatch, the sinister snarkiness of Scott Frizzell and Rob Doherty, the country boy ramble of Bruce Lane and his car, "Bandit"...
Oh, I could go on. But you know what I'm talking about. It was in your high school too, and in your high school memories. I pushed away my high school years with both arms long enough. I now embrace those memories. Living in the past is not the place to increase you present real estate value; however, even if you don't want to live there, it's not a bad place to visit once in a while.
Even if it's only in your mind.
High school is a little community unto itself. The characters, socializing and the teachers. Ah, the teachers. Is there a more thankless job in the civilian world than teaching high school students? For anyone out there presently in high school who may actually be reading this, you'll realize in short order just what an annoying, hormonal drama-monger you are right now, when a few more years pass. Teaching is the equivalent of being a first-time lion tamer except it happens every day at the chalk board. Throughout my life, I have had some fairly nondescript teachers, but I have also had some extraordinary instructors, as well. Ron Eshleman was my 10th grade Science teacher. To get an idea of who he was, try to imagine Emeril Lagasse without the Cajun patois. The man was brilliant and had boundless energy. He demanded accountability and knew his stuff, but the thing I remember most fondly about him is what he told us on the first day of class - "People (teachers always called the students "people"), I don't care if you walk out of here at the end of the year knowing absolutely nothing about science. What I hope you are able to do, however, is learn how to THINK." It's a funny thing, though. I actually do remember a lot about that class and not just because of the handy mnemonics he gave us. But, if you stepped out of line, he really gave it to you. Once, when he was describing how two Nitrogen (periodic symbol "N") split into two, I said, under my breath, "Hmm, split Ns," he wheel around and rocketed a piece of chalk at me that split into a zillion pieces over my head. He said, "You know, for a jackass, you're pretty good." Then he pointed towards the door and I had a chance to socialize with the principal, Mr. Fred Wrigley, for the 100th time.
Fred Wrigley. I'm not sure if this is true or not, but legend had it he was a drill instructor in a previous time in his life. It certainly wouldn't surprise me. Infamous for the way he bellowed the word "soph-o-mores!" to us clueless locker jockeys, the man was a take-no-guff disciplinarian. However, he was one of the kindest, most compassionate people I had ever met at that age. Each year, the senior class would pull what is known as the "Senior Stunt." The class of 1983 filled up Mr. Wrigley's office with 1,983 balloons. It was quite a sight. In fact, it made the front page of the fledgling USAToday, with Mr. Wrigley sitting at his desk surrounded by a mass of inflated latex. As a member of the class of 1984, there was no way we were going to top that, let alone get national exposure, so we decorated his ceiling with 1,984 Wrigley's gum wrappers. Lame, I know, but the gesture had to be made.
Sadly, Mr. Wrigley passed away not long after I graduated. His place was assumed by James Bruton, who had a bit of Smothers Brothers-type routine with the math teacher, Donald Fantine. The two of them were strict taskmasters, but, when the atmosphere was more relaxed, they were like a well-polished comedy team, lobbing hilarious insults at each other and generally adding a lot of color to the hallways. I could really write for hours upon hours about the memorable teachers I had, but for those who attended dear old CHS, you remember them, and for those who did not, you probably had similar people in your educational staff. Without referring to my heavily dust-covered yearbook, I would just like to thank the following teachers off the top of my head for making me the person I am today - for better or worse: the vivacious Susan Stetler, the booming Grant Dunn, the patient-beyond-reason William Chipman, the favorite uncle-type James Ruth, the kindly English teacher James Brasure, the motherly Virginia Burins, the uncompromising excellence of Michael Roccia, the eagerly determined Helene Jouan, the whimsical Robert Guy, the mystical Donald Crawford, the lovable grouchiness of one of the best basketball coaches in the state, Tom DiStefano, who had the unenviable task of teaching me to parallel park, the laid-back brilliance of Rich McKinnon, the bubbly effervescence of the late, indefatigable Gertrude Jenkins and the genuine enjoyer of life, art teacher and senior class advisor, Alan "Bags" Ruth, who, until the day I die, will remain one of my favorite people of all time. Lastly, the teacher all CHS alumni will never forget, the person I could not stand as a student until my last day of class as a senior, when it dawned on me just what an incredible personality he was, Mr. Howard Simpkins. Mr. Simpkins was a taskmaster extraordinaire, with a haircut from a 1950's industrial arts classroom video, rocket scientist eyeglasses and a system of demerits that would bring a Hell's Angel to his knees. He was one of those guys who wore a short-sleeve shirt and tie. It's difficult to elucidate the level of influence he has had on students over the years, and even me, a lover of words, cannot find the exact words to convey just how valuable the life lessons he taught us. To Mr. Simpkins, Mr. Eshleman, all the teachers of CHS, my previous teachers and to all teachers, past, present and future in this world, my sincerest thanks and appreciation. No matter what they are paying you, it is not enough.
Like any high school, cliques develop and evolve. I had a few which I rotated through, like most people seem to say ("I never really belonged to any one group; I got along with everyone." Sound familiar?). The big, broad clique, the kind represented in every high school-based movie of white kids, was always the most eventful. I suppose it's why so many movies are based on that social grouping. We would hang out behind the high school on crisp Autumn nights, passing around half pints of Jack Daniel's, watching the youth football leagues or playing Frisbee and chewing tobacco in the parking lot of Gebhart's Funeral Home or infest the McDonald's on Philadelphia Pike, having a great time laughing, cutting up and soaking up the magnificence of youth, all the while complaining how bored we were. The events of the season, however, occurred when someone's parents went out of town. Everyone descended upon that house in a Bacchanalian eruption of unleashed exhuberance. Whether it was Lynn Newton's house, Mark LaVere's or the epic festivals at Marie London's, everyone who was everyone, in our world, was there. I remember bringing a loaf of Italian bread to Mark's house because, whenever I drank, I would develop a humongous appetite. As if I didn't normally attract my share of derisive gazes, the Italian bread was the clincher. The fact Mark's house was smack dab next to the park was a dangerous formula. Imagine a horde of drunken high school students on the swings, leaping at the apogee up the upswing, people puking whilst hanging upside down on the jungle gym and teenaged girls screeching, "Stop! Stop!" while being violently swung on the little red roundabout, and you have what amounts to a typical Claymont high school teenager party.
High school is a heady time. For some, it's the summit of their lives. Many people never experience the glory of life as they did in their high school years. Others, cocooned in their chrysalis of shyness and late blooming consider their high school years the worst time of their lives. For me, it was a little from Column A and a little from Column B. You see, the students who graduated from Claymont High School more or less grew up together. We went to Darley Road, Maple Lane or Green Street Elementary Schools, attended Claymont Middle School and/or P.S. DuPont Middle School and, eventually, dear old CHS. Many students were integrated into the environment with the advent of busing in the late 1970s while others came from some of the Catholic or private schools. The youth programs, such as Little League, football and basketball leagues further solidified the student community into an inescapable celebration for some and a prison for others. You see, with that environment, something humiliating that happened to you in third grade traveled with you until 12th. You might have changed as a person, but the perception of you did not. It's a cruel truth to face in the most fragile part of a boy's or girl's life. The pressure can create a diamond or a lump of coal. We were all geniuses in high school, and since this is the only life we knew, we figured we knew all about life. How wrong we were, just as wrong as the students of today will find themselves in due time.
Personally, I knew I could not wait to get out. I wanted a fresh start and to put the distasteful elements of my standardized schooling behind me. I didn't want to be around these people any longer. So, it might come as a bit of a surprise, when upon graduation, sitting on stage, I began to bawl like a grandmother. Where was this coming from? Why was I shedding tears for something I detested so much? In the movie , "Conspiracy," (a brilliant and chilling movie about the Holocaust) the one dissenting figure, Dr. Kritzinger, tells a story about how a man he knew, who lost the mother he adored. At her funeral, he could not find the tears; however, when his father, a man he hated, died, he wept uncontrollably. The man in the story, apparently, had been driven by hate his whole life, so when the object of his hate, his father, passed away, his hate died with him. He felt he had nothing else for which to live. I suppose that's how I felt, up on that stage 25 years ago. It's taken the mellowing of age, the appreciation of perspective and the understanding, that, despite knowing everything back then, I realize I know almost nothing today, to not only offer my forgiveness, but my apologies to the people, the institution and the life I had detested so many years ago. When I run into an old classmate these days, I don't think about the bad times; rather, I embrace the good times, the laughs of Margie Eachus and Bev Deloatch, the sinister snarkiness of Scott Frizzell and Rob Doherty, the country boy ramble of Bruce Lane and his car, "Bandit"...
Oh, I could go on. But you know what I'm talking about. It was in your high school too, and in your high school memories. I pushed away my high school years with both arms long enough. I now embrace those memories. Living in the past is not the place to increase you present real estate value; however, even if you don't want to live there, it's not a bad place to visit once in a while.
Even if it's only in your mind.
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