Last Friday, 3/23/2012, I read “LOVE ABOVE ALL,” a chapter from my book, “THE ROGUE’S ROAD TO RETIREMENT,” to a lively audience assembled at the R.J. Julia bookstore in Madison, Connecticut. Nine of us, poets and writers, participated in the monthly gathering.

I explained in the introduction that my reason for writing the book was to preserve for my children and grandchildren stories that they could enjoy and pass on to future generations about our family and individuals in it – dating back to my great, great, grandfather, Patrick King, who came to this country riding a rum keg through the surf on Long Island when the ship from Ireland on which he had stowed away foundered off Patchogue.

The book is a collection of 45 essays, short stories and memoir pieces about growing up in a loving family with my brother Ken. It includes sections about Andover, Yale, the U.S. Navy, childhood, marriage, parenting and grand-parenting with more than a dash of humor and poignancy thrown in.

The story below is one of my favorites. Hope you enjoy…

George S. K. Rider aka “The Rogue!!”

 

LOVE ABOVE ALL    

September 1951 – there I was, comfortably ensconced on the third floor of Lawrence, the dusty brick dorm next to and to the right of the main gateway to the Freshman campus. Two large bedrooms, each with a desk and double deckered bunks and a high ceiling living room, would be my home for the first year at Yale.

I was cocky and a bit full of myself. My three roommates shared my feelings and exhibited them to varying degrees.  All of us had graduated from Andover that June. At  Andover, we thought we were big stuff. Three of us had captained varsity teams – lacrosse, golf and hockey – and the fourth was a Whiffenpoof (the legendary Yale singing group) in waiting. The world was our oyster! We were fish in a pond the size not yet measured, the dimensions not yet determined.

Rooming across the hall, the group included several stand-out athletes: Thorne Shugart, a red-shirt tackle from Stanford who anchored the Yale line and a math Dean’s List student. He had a tryout with the New York Giants and at an early age became president of a bank in Texas. Joining him, John Balch, All State Ohio, halfback and wrestler, and Kearney Strand, star basketball forward from the state of Washington and later Andover. They, like us, were all just other freshmen in a class of a thousand.

One early March morning about 2:00AM, the phone rang and rang. I finally got up groggy and stumbled into the living room to pick it up.

“Rider, this is Balch — I’m in jail.”

“What? Where?”

“I only get one call. I need $75 or I’m in here for life. Here are the directions. Hurry!!’—- Click!!

His roommates hadn’t bothered to pick up their phone. At that stage of our lives, coming up with $75 was like floating a bond issue, particularly in the middle of the night.

I came up with a humbling $6 singles and a dollar in change. My roommates and his contributed $32. We fanned out banging on doors until our take totaled $85, the overage covered gas and tolls.

Thorne volunteered to drive. Forty-five minutes later we pulled into the State Troopers Barracks in Meriden. We were anxious to hear John’s story first hand.

The Desk Sargent dispelled our curiosity. He gave an outline of John’s transgressions.

Caught up in the moment, he decided to commemorate a particularly gratifying evening with a gal pal from Smith College. On the way home from North Hampton and just off the Wilbur Cross Highway, John remembered an old factory building he had passed many times. The building housed the “Balch Tire and Rubber Company.” Prominently displayed on the roof of the three-story warehouse was a sign bearing his name, emblazoned in neon-lights.

“BALCH SATISFIES”

John pulled off the highway and into the parking lot. He had to have that sign. Armed with the wrench used to change a flat, and fueled with requited desire and a taste of John Barleycorn, he clambered up the fire escape ladder to the roof and “liberated” the sign bearing his name.

So far, so good! Now came the hard part. The sign was too long to fit in the car. John’s Ivy-league education kicked in. He rolled down both back windows and placed the sign crosswise over the back seat, the ends of the sign extending out on either side of the car. The problem occurred at the tollgate. The car wouldn’t fit through. The toll collector notified the Troopers. John was driving without a license, the smell of several beers on his breath.

By the time the Trooper had finished his story, John was produced from his cell, none the worse for ware. Properly receipted, we hastily departed.  On the way home he related his story. It didn’t vary too much from that of the Trooper. The details were more specific, the language more colorful. John’s lady friend was hopefully still sleeping, with a smile on her face. Her friend John was sporting one!

John still had one more hurdle to overcome. The car that carried him to Smith was not his. He had borrowed it from his friend Richard Haskel, a freshman football teammate. To complicate matters even further, the car wasn’t Richard’s either, it belonged to Richard’s brother, Merwin, an upperclassman. Freshmen were not allowed to have cars. Richard had borrowed it from Merwin with specific instructions that no on else was to get behind the wheel. John badgered Richard. Richard finally gave in.

The night of John’s adventure, Richard was sound asleep in his bed. He arose early, turned on the radio and tuned in to the news still half asleep. The newscaster was relating the story of a Yale freshman named Balch, detailing his brush with the law and, “The sign that wouldn’t fit through the tollgate.” Suddenly Richard was wide awake. His first reaction was,“What the hell am I going to tell Merwin?”

Merwin was home in Scarsdale recuperating from a bout of  “mono.” He had missed a whole term and, fortunately for Richard, would not return to school until after Spring break.

The only part of the story to occur without incident took place the following day. Thorne drove Richard to Meridan to retrieve Merwin’s car. John was conspicuously absent. Merwin would not learn of the saga until well after spring break and, when he did, there was Hell to pay. John may have satisfied, but Merwin was less than impressed!

George S.K. Rider