A Summer in Iowa

Part 8 — The Journey Ahead

Friday, June 16, 1972

The SSTP was scheduled to run from Monday, June 26 through Friday, August 4, a total of six weeks. Participants could check into their dorm rooms any time between the hours of 9:00 AM and 6:00 PM on either the Saturday or Sunday immediately before; however, meal service wouldn’t begin until the morning of June 26. Dorm rooms needed to be thoroughly cleaned and vacated by 6:00 PM on Sunday, August 6.

The program was scheduled so as to avoid conflicts with schools that finished in latter June and those that started in August, as an increasing number were beginning to do. My school system had one of the latest ending dates, with a final day of June 20, which barely left five days to get to Iowa City and check in on time. However, my last final exam was on June 15, after which no meaningful classroom instruction would occur. Fortunately, I was able to obtain an excused absence for June 16 through the 20^th, giving us nine and a half days for a short vacation. That was more than adequate for what Mom had planned.

Now that I owned my own car, it was my responsibility to maintain it and make sure it was always in good working order. The first thing I had to do when we switched the registration to my name was to take my car to a mechanic certified to do state inspections. Mom always took our cars to a garage over on West 38^th street. The owner was someone who used to work at Delco, who’d earned Dad’s respect. Dad trusted him and so we continued to take our cars there, trusting the mechanics he hired.

As a new car owner, I needed a new inspection sticker and it didn’t take me long to realize what a racket the state inspections really were. My car was an older model that lacked one of the new catalytic converters. Most cars wouldn’t have them until 1975, but pollution controls were already being tightened and unlike newer models, mine couldn’t even take unleaded gas. Not that it would’ve helped, but my car’s V8 engine was a gas guzzler. When the stars were aligned, I could get 22 mpg on the highway, but around town, it was more like 10.

The bottom line was that my car didn’t pass the tailpipe emissions inspection, nor could it be made fully compliant without an engine rebuild. There was a provision in the law that allowed a car needing repairs of more than $50 to pass with payment of a $50 fine. That was a hell of a lot less expensive than an engine rebuild.

However, as the mechanic doing the inspection explained, some unscrupulous mechanics wouldn’t tell their customers about the $50 provision and try to force their customers to get an engine rebuild. When their customers balked, they’d try to sell them on ineffective repairs and then tell them about the $50 provision only after the repairs didn’t work. Some mechanics would even pocket the $50 themselves. That was risky, as there were random roadside spot checks. Without proper paperwork, the owner had no way to prove they’d already paid the fine.

So when my car failed the tailpipe inspection, the mechanic suggested we tweak the engine timing to use a leaner burn. Doing that would make the engine more prone to pinging and might hurt performance a bit, but sure enough, after tweaking the timing, the car passed. The guy did that at no extra charge, and he saved me $50 — at least until the next inspection.

The mechanic let me stay with him in the mechanics bay while he worked. It probably wasn’t legal, but I appreciated the chance to observe everything he did and to learn more about maintaining my car. He inspected the brake pads and said they were good for another 5,000 miles. He showed me the wear patterns on my tires and advised I have a front-end alignment as soon as possible, and definitely before any major trip. Otherwise I’d need a new set of tires, sooner than later. I asked about replacing the tires with longer-lasting radials, but he advised against it. My car was designed for bias-ply tires and the way the suspension was designed, radial tires would cause the car to shimmy.

I brought the car back for an oil change and front end alignment on June 10. It was in the midst of studying for finals, but it had to be done. The mechanic again checked the tire pressures, brake, power steering and transmission fluids and topped off the windshield washer fluid. Noting that the radiator fluid level was a little low, he checked for a cooling system leak. Finding none, he replaced the aging radiator hoses as a precaution and added more antifreeze. He checked the fan belts and checked the A/C.

When he was done, I couldn’t believe the size of the bill. It was over $200! For more than a year I’d been trying to convince my mom I needed my own credit card. She said I was too young and worried I’d buy things on credit and pile up a mountain of debt. I was disappointed she would even think that. When it came to money, I was as responsible as she was.

Mom let me use her Master Charge on occasion, and I carried a note giving her permission. Although he knew me and my mom, the mechanic couldn’t accept a credit card signed by someone other than the name on the card for such a large amount. I had to pay by check. I was gonna hafta keep working on Mom to co-sign for me to get my own card. At least I’d have her ear during our trip.

So the car was ready, I had everything packed and ready to go, my sophomore year of high school was over and I was psyched. The car trunk was extra full, as I had to bring everything I’d need for the six weeks I’d spend in Iowa. That included clothing, bedding and incidentals. Mom and I packed lightly for the trip, so we wouldn’t need to leave anything visible on the back seat that might get stolen.

Checking around the car one last time and verifying that the gas gauge read full, I slipped behind the steering wheel as Mom got in on the passenger side of the front seat. We agreed that it was silly for me to hold the door for her every time. As the LTD had electronic door locks, there was no need to unlock the door for her either. Checking the seat position and the rearview mirrors, I started the engine, put the car in reverse and backed out of our driveway. Finally, we were on our way!

Because we had a little more time than we’d originally planned, we decided to take the more leisurely route up the coast of Lake Michigan rather than racing up the center of the Lower Peninsula on the interstate. Mom thought it would be better for me to ease into highway driving that way. Driving up Ditch Road, I turned right on 96^th Street and then left on Meridian Street, which continued as U.S. Highway 31 after it crossed the recently completed outer loop, I-465.

Highway 31 would take us all the way up to Mackinac City and the Mackinac Straits Bridge, which connects the Upper and Lower Peninsulas of Michigan. Initially, the road was only two lanes and there were lots of traffic lights. There was also a lot of construction work where they were widening the roadway. After passing Carmel, it became a four-lane divided highway, but still with a lot of cross-traffic. With a speed limit of 65, I had to be extra vigilant for cars and other vehicles crossing the roadway, and for the occasional traffic light.

I had no intention of speeding more than perhaps five miles over the speed limit, but with such a smooth-riding car, all too often I glanced down to see I was going close to eighty miles an hour. Yikes! Just past the town of Peru, home of the Barnum and Bailey Circus, the divided highway ended and it was slow going as we passed through one town after another. Also there were many slow-moving trucks with very few opportunities to pass them safely. The divided highway didn’t resume until we neared South Bend.

As we drove along, Mom and I chatted about the upcoming presidential election. Mom was worried about McGovern’s rising popularity and feared he’d get the nomination. I too would’ve preferred Humphrey, but whereas I could live with McGovern, she could not. She thought she might even vote for Nixon if that happened, which was something I could never do — not that I could vote yet in any case. The 26th Amendment, lowering the voting age to eighteen nationwide, introduced by Indiana’s own Birch Bayh, was ratified just last year. The soonest I’d be able to vote was in another two years.

Our conversation slowly faded away as we ran out of things to say, and so I switched on the radio to fill the void. Unfortunately, my car only had an AM radio, which meant dealing with a lot of static and searching for decent music as each station was lost in the noise. When we got to South Bend, we got out to stretch our legs. South Bend is a decent-size city. Fortunately, there was a bypass so I didn’t hafta go through town.

We arrived in the town of Holland, Michigan, just in time for lunch. Holland is a tourist-oriented town that’s modeled after an old Dutch village. Parking the car, it felt good to walk around after spending over three hours driving. Today was my first time driving long distances — I was surprised at how tiring it was.

I was starving and there were a lot of restaurants to choose from. Many of them were smorgasbords, which were just the thing to satisfy my teenage appetite. We consulted our AAA tour book before leaving the car and chose one that was highly rated, yet it was reasonably priced.

I thought I knew what Dutch food was like. I like Pennsylvania Dutch food. We have some great Pennsylvania Dutch restaurants in Indiana, thanks to the large Amish population. The food in Holland wasn’t like that. I guess it was more like traditional Dutch food, with meatballs, bratwurst, sauerkraut and the like. Not that there wasn’t plenty to choose from. Not that I didn’t enjoy the meal, but I’d have much rather had pizza or a burger and fries.

After finishing our lunch, we walked around the town, enjoying the pleasant setting. It was past the tulip season, but there was still a profusion of flowers — mostly irises of every color and variety, as well as various annuals. Mom had to check out all the shops, which took hours. Most of the stuff for sale was just too touristy, but some of the stores sold more eclectic items, including some rather expensive Delft pottery.

A number of the shops were selling cuckoo clocks, some of which were quite sophisticated. They all had a pendulum and were powered by weights that had to be rewound back to the top, usually on a daily basis. Some had larger weights that only needed to be rewound every week. All of the clocks had a little bird that popped out and chimed ‘cuckoo’ every hour on the hour. Some had little dolls that danced in circles, or bears that sawed logs, or other animated things.

I tried talking Mom into buying one, but as she pointed out, the hourly sound of the cuckoo would be more than annoying, to the point we’d undoubtedly turn it off. She complained that undoubtedly, winding the clock would slip our minds until after it wound down. She worried that with such complicated mechanisms, at some point the clock would break. Where in Indianapolis would we ever find someone to fix it?

As we finished strolling around town, I realized I was already hungry again, but I wasn’t keen on eating more Dutch food. We continued up the coast to nearby Grand Haven, where we had a reservation at a nice waterfront inn for the night. First, however, we stopped at a Sinclair Service Station to fill up the tank. Gas was 34.9 cents per gallon. Ouch!

Grand Haven was known for its dancing waters musical fountain. The inn was located within easy walking distance from the waterfront stadium, where we had a reservation for that night’s show. After checking into our room, we consulted the Michigan AAA Tour Book and chose a seafood restaurant, right on the harbor. It was a bit more upscale than we’d realized, but it was casual and the food was fantastic. I’d not had steelhead trout before. It was incredibly fresh and tasted more like salmon than like trout to me.

After dinner, we had a little time to kill. Unfortunately, it was nearly the summer solstice and it wouldn’t get dark until after 10:00. On the advice of the concierge, we got to the waterfront stadium an hour early. It was good advice, as the stadium was already filling up. Even so, we found seats with an excellent view. The musical fountain was located across the harbor from the stadium, on the other side of the Grand River.

The fountain turned out to be nothing more than a series of synchronized water jets, illuminated by colored lights and set to music. Back home we had something similar, but on a smaller scale, in the center of Lafayette Square Mall. What disappointed me the most about the musical fountain, however, was that the theme for the evening was Gospel music. To me, that’s an even lower art form than country music, if it can even be called an art form. Besides which, I wasn’t keen on anything having to do with organized religion.

We went to bed, oblivious of events happening as we slept. It wasn’t until much later that we learned that four Cuban immigrants had broken into the Democratic National Headquarters in the Watergate complex. Even then, the implications of that didn’t become apparent until much, much later.

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Saturday, June 17, 1972

We’d arranged for a wakeup call at 6:00, but we didn’t get to bed until after midnight. When the call came, after hanging up the phone, Mom and I went back to sleep. Next thing I knew, I was woken up by the sound of the maid vacuuming the room next door. Looking at the bedside clock, it was already 10:21. “Oh shit!” I exclaimed, which was so out of character for me. I never even cussed in front of the kids at school, let alone my mom.

“Yikes, you’re right!” Mom exclaimed as she too noticed the time. “We need to get a move-on.”

“We hafta be in Sault Ste. Marie by tonight,” I noted.

“We’ll skip Mackinac Island,” she responded. “It’s supposed to be nice and there are lovely houses, but a carriage ride or a two-hour walk around the island, much less the ferry ride, aren’t high on my list.”

“Mine either,” I agreed. “Frankly, we could’ve skipped strolling around Holland, and I’d have paid to skip the musical fountain last night.”

“You’re going to have to learn, Jeff, that a woman needs her time to shop,” Mom countered. “I agree about the fountain, though. That’s the first time I’ve ever been told by a fountain to put my faith in Jesus,” she added with a laugh.

“Amen to that,” I quipped and we both laughed.

Mom and I showered and dressed in record time. I could’ve done with a shave, but we were on vacation and that was something that was easily skipped. We did take the time to eat a hearty lunch of burgers, fries and milkshakes in a nearby Steak ’n Shake. It was a quick meal that was ready in minutes, and it filled us up for the afternoon.

U.S. Highway 31 continued up the Michigan coast, only parts of which were on four-lane divided roadways. Most of Highway 31 took an interior route that wasn’t very scenic at all. Wishing to take a more scenic route, we’d had the AAA office in Indianapolis prepare Triptiks for us, based on sticking to scenic roads where possible. They weren’t nearly as fast, but by cutting out Mackinac Island, there still should have been sufficient time. Even so, some compromise was necessary to avoid getting bogged down in small costal towns that weren’t all that scenic. The Triptiks were marked to take us up Highway 31 until we got to the town of Manistee, at which point we switched to Michigan Route 22, which hugged the coast.

Once on the costal route, the scenery was quite nice and there were lots of places to pull over and enjoy the view. Like my dad, the fact that the water extended all the way to the horizon mesmerized me, just as he had been the first time he saw Lake Michigan. I was surprised at how turquoise the water appeared.

Having grown up seeing only artificial lakes with muddy brown water, I’d always wondered why people rhapsodized about the deep blue sea. This water wasn’t deep blue — it was turquoise blue with darker patches that moved across the surface. It didn’t take me long to figure out that the darker patches were the shadows cast by the fluffy white clouds overhead.

Getting out my camera, I took several photos along the route. When I finished the first 36-exposure roll of Kodachrome II, it dawned on me that if I continued at that rate, I was gonna run out of film. I’d bought a 12-pack of film at a sizable discount from a mail-order place in New York. That 12-pack was supposed to last for the entire trip. If I used it up, I’d be forced to buy more film at tourist trap prices. Not only that, but I needed to keep in mind the cost of developing the film. I needed to take more time composing each shot. I needed to be more selective.

Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore was supposed to be one of the most scenic lakeshores in the U.S. When we got there, we took a jeep tour, as it was the only way to see the dunes. More than that, it was fun! The drive from Glen Haven up to Northport and back down along Grand Traverse Bay was particularly beautiful. When we got to Traverse City, we rejoined Highway 31 and continued along the southern shore of Grand Traverse Bay.

Mom took over driving so that I could have a chance to enjoy the scenery, which turned out to be a good move. We were slowing down for a traffic light in Petosky that had just turned yellow, when Mom suddenly screamed, “The idiot!” A moment later, there was a sharp bump from behind. I was sure glad it was Mom that was at the wheel.

We were already as far right as we could be without being against the curb, so other drivers had to go around us. Mom and I both got out of the car and the driver of the car that rammed us got out as well. He was a young guy, probably in his mid-twenties, and he was driving a red sports car. He really did a number on his car, as the grill was bashed in. Nervously, I walked around to look at our car and was surprised to see that there wasn’t any visible damage. His car was low to the ground and his front bumper went completely under our rear bumper. One of the bumper guards on our car was enmeshed in what was left of his grill.

“Why did you slow down?” the young man demanded.

“I make a habit of stopping for red lights,” Mom replied with sarcasm.

“Maybe he was driving, and he braked suddenly,” the young man suggested, pointing at me. “Maybe he backed up into me.”

“That’s not what happened and you know it,” Mom responded. “I think you’ll have a hard time convincing a police officer that you weren’t at fault for a rear-end collision.”

“Please, let’s not get the police involved, okay?” he said. “My insurance rates’ll go through the roof. Besides, there’s no damage to your car.”

“I need to have a mechanic inspect the car before we can say there’s no damage,” I countered. “I need to be sure the impact didn’t crack the chrome or put a hole in it, and that the tailpipe and muffler weren’t damaged, or the gas tank, for that matter.”

“You gave up any chance we wouldn’t file a police report when you tried to lie about my son,” Mom added. Just then, a police cruiser pulled up behind us, making the matter moot.

“What happened here?” the police officer asked.

“The light changed and I slowed to stop, and the young man plowed into us,” Mom answered. The young man remained silent.

“You were driving?” the officer asked.

“Absolutely,” Mom replied.

What the officer said next totally took us by surprise. He said to Mom and me, “I have to file a police report and I’ll give each of you a carbonless copy in case you decide to file it with your insurance. However, I’d strongly suggest you settle things here and now if possible. Michigan’s a no-fault state and even if the accident was entirely the other driver’s fault, your insurance rates could go up. It doesn’t look like there was any damage to your car…”

“What about the tailpipe or the gas tank?” I asked.

“Just a sec,” the officer said, running back to his cruiser. He returned with a flashlight and took a look under our car. “I don’t see any damage at all to the tailpipe or gas tank, but you should have a body shop take a look at your bumper.

“If you agree to a cash settlement, I’ll make a note of the amount on my report. You’ll still have the right to file a claim and sue if you find any problems when you get home.”

“I’ll give you fifty dollars, no questions asked,” the other driver offered. That certainly was a quick offer. I couldn’t help but wonder if this had happened before.

“How much would it cost to replace the bumper?” I asked the police officer.

“A whole lot more that fifty bucks,” he replied.

“How about $250, and we’ll release you from any further liability unless the repair costs more than $500?”

“Jeff, are you sure that’s wise?” Mom asked.

“It’s worth it to be on our way, and chances are we won’t need any repairs,” I explained.

I was surprised the other driver didn’t try to haggle over the amount and worried he might know more about what we were risking than we did. $250 was a hell of a lot of money and I'd suggested it, thinking he’d try to bargain it down. Instead, he handed Mom $250 in cash and the police officer made note of it in the police report, as well as of our agreement to release liability. I couldn’t help but wonder what the guy did for a living that he carried so much cash in his wallet!

The officer gave both parties a copy of the police report. I took photos of the accident scene, both cars and the other driver’s license before we went on our way. “I’d better call our agent, regardless,” Mom said. “Not to report the accident, but to find out about if we should do anything more.

“Well that was a wasted hour,” Mom exclaimed.

“It could’ve been a lot worse, Mom,” I replied. She wholeheartedly agreed.

We didn’t get a chance to call our insurance agent until a few days later, but it was a good thing we did. Sending her a copy of the accident report wouldn’t raise our rates, but it would protect us should a problem arise later on. She pointed out that symptoms of neck and back injuries often don’t arise until days after an accident. I hadn’t even thought of that!

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Friday, June 23, 1972

I couldn’t believe our little mini-vacation had gone by so quickly. Was it just a week ago that we pulled out of our driveway? It was our first trip of any kind since Dad died and our first driving trip since I got my license. I couldn’t get over how different it felt, traveling with Mom at the age of sixteen compared to at twelve. For the first time in my life, I felt like an adult.

No doubt, Mom was the boss. She had the last word when we disagreed, and she was the one paying for the trip. She listened to me though. More often than not, she let me make the decisions — even the important ones. She trusted my judgment. It felt strange, but in a good way.

Beyond a doubt, the highlight of the trip was the train ride to Agawa Canyon. There was a humorous moment though, when Mom exclaimed, “Why do so many people travel to foreign countries when we have so much beauty right here in America?”

“But Mom,” I replied, “we are in a foreign country. This is Canada.” I’d never seen her turn so red before.

Truthfully, I wanted to travel all over the world. America didn’t have a monopoly on natural beauty and besides, there was so much else to see. I was fascinated by other cultures and particularly by the wonders of the ancient world. For that matter, as soon as space tourism becomes affordable, sign me up for a trip to the moon.

Tahquamenon Falls, on the Upper Peninsula, was particularly beautiful, and we took the time to do some hiking there. However, we got our first taste of the severity of the water pollution problem, when we saw soapsuds frothing at the base of the falls, literally filling the river for miles downstream.

Indiana had recently become the first state to impose a ban on the use of phosphates in laundry detergents. The ban was very unpopular, and there were numerous attempts to repeal it, yet it remained in place. Mom used to rail against the ban, forever complaining about how our clothes didn’t come out of the wash as clean as before.

After seeing all the mounds of soapsuds and having to hike through them, Mom said, “Now I see why we need the phosphate ban. The environment is much more important than how clean our clothes look.” From that point on, Mom was a staunch environmentalist. I’d been one since the seventh grade, when I read Rachel Carson’s The Silent Spring.

We took a boat tour at Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore and then drove down the coastline of Green Bay, which was particularly scenic. Neither Mom nor I is a football fan, but we took a tour of the Green Bay Packers Hall of Fame and stadium, which was more interesting than I thought it would be. Even more interesting was the tour of a lumber mill and paper factory.

We stayed overnight in Door County in a motel on the lake, which was very picturesque. From there we went to the Wisconsin Dells, but the area was just as touristic as we’d expected it to be. We saw the major sites and took a boat tour on the Wisconsin River. Like all good tourists, we rode the Army Duck boats on Denton Lake, visited Storybook Gardens and saw Tommy Bartlett’s Thrill Show. It was all fun, but I wouldn’t bother coming back.

The next two days would be the final leg of our trip. Getting up early on Saturday morning, we ate a hearty but mediocre breakfast that seemed to be the norm for the area. We departed our motel and headed south, making a brief stop at Governor Dodge State Park, and then headed west, following the course of the Wisconsin River until it flowed into the Mississippi. We got out to stretch our legs and enjoy the view from Wyalusing State Park, and then continued south to Cassville, Wisconsin.

Cassville was a small town that had been transformed into a tourist-oriented pioneer village. All of the townsfolk were in-character, but it all seemed fake. I guess Mom thought I would enjoy it, and I might have when I was ten or even twelve. At sixteen, I found it incredibly boring, but Mom meant well. We spent the night in Dubuque and then continued down along the Mississippi River on Sunday.

We stopped for lunch in the quad cities, which consisted of Davenport and Bettendorf on the Iowa side, and Rock Island and Moline on the Illinois side. They essentially were just one moderately large city, but the setting, flanking the Mississippi was one of the most picturesque places I’d ever seen. I took far too many photographs, but it was hard to choose one vantage point from another.

The drive from Davenport to Iowa City only took an hour, so we arrived way in advance of the 6:00 deadline. Mom was spending the night at the Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge. She would depart for the trip home to Indianapolis in the morning. After checking her in, we found our way to the Rienow II residence hall. We pulled up in front but were directed to a small parking area in back with a loading dock where I could unload my things.

While Mom parked the car, I went inside where I was able to check in and receive my dorm room assignment. I was given a building key and a room key, both of which I added to the keyring I carried in my pocket. To my surprise, they also handed me a student ID card that looked more like a credit card, with my picture on the front. I slipped it into my wallet. Lastly, I was given a glossy folder with everything I needed to know to begin the SSTP. I noticed an envelope in the folder for payment of the tuition balance. I’d let Mom handle that!

Before heading back out to the car, I thought I’d better check out my room, so I took one of the elevators to the third floor and easily found it. The door was wide open, as were most of the doors, but the room was vacant. The bed by the window was already made, so I assumed my roommate had already moved in. The room was much larger than I’d been expecting, but spartan, with a cold-looking linoleum floor. The furniture was very basic and appeared to be made of particle board with a dark wood laminate.

Heading back downstairs, I noticed there were several carts sitting behind the front desk. I asked if I could borrow one and was told that’s what they were there for. I was glad I wouldn’t have to carry my things from the car, box by box. Grabbing one of the carts, I took it out the back door and quickly spotted my car. Mom and I loaded the cart with all the boxes of my things from the trunk. Together, we took the cart up to my room.

This time, the room wasn’t empty. Lying on the bed by the window was a boy. I couldn’t see his face ’cause he was facing toward the window and appeared to be reading, but even so, his appearance was striking. He had a very slight build that almost made him look more like a girl than a boy. He was short for a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old boy. He was barefoot and dressed in cutoffs and a black tank top. His most striking feature was the unruly mop of golden curls that adorned his head.

His hair wasn’t exactly stylish, as most of us had longish hair with bangs hanging over our foreheads to the top of our eyes. Even those of us with wavy hair like mine or even curly hair tried to straighten our hair as much as possible. However, it was evident there was no way he could make his hair anything close to straight. Although I’d yet to see his face, I doubted he had bangs. Anything down to or over his eyes would’ve made him look like a shaggy dog.

I guess the sound of our wheeling the cart into the room caught his attention, as he looked our way, put his book down, sat up and then stood and came toward us. His hair was no longer his defining feature. He had emerald green eyes that were unlike any I’d ever seen. My eyes were hazel, a dull color somewhere between olive and light brown. His eyes were almost unnaturally vivid and far too beautiful for a boy’s.

There was no doubt that he was a boy, though. He had broad shoulders with a smattering of freckles and a flat chest, but he looked young. He looked barely old enough to be in junior high, much less entering his junior or senior year of high school.

Reaching out his hand and shaking mine using the ‘bro’ handshake used by most teens, he said in a high-pitched tenor voice, “Hi. I guess you’re my roommate. My name’s Paul. Paul Moore, and I’m from Council Bluffs, outside of Omaha.”

“Jeff Lindsey, from Indianapolis,” I replied, “and this is my mom, but I guess that’s obvious.”

“Hi Paul,” Mom said as she shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he replied.

“I hate to sound rude,” she continued, “but do you smoke?” Talk about embarrassing me!

Giggling, Paul answered, “Not unless I’m on fire.”

Laughing, Mom said, “That’s good, because Jeff’s allergic to cigarette smoke.”

Without missing a beat, Paul responded, “So then pot’s okay?” When Mom appeared horrified, he added, “Hey, I’m joking. I guess you hafta get to know me to understand my warped sense of humor. My dad’s always telling me I’m too smart for my own good, particularly since I act my age.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but how old are you?” Mom asked.

“I’m thirteen, and an upcoming junior at Lewis Central Senior High,” he answered.

“I thought you had to be sixteen to be in the SSTP,” I exclaimed.

“About a third of entering Juniors are only fifteen,” Paul pointed out, “depending on the cutoff dates of their school systems. However, the requirements specified only that you had to have completed your sophomore year before the start of the program. There was no age requirement specified. Nevertheless, they rejected my application and said I was too young. I was still only twelve when I applied. My mom’s an attorney and she threatened to take the university to court.

“The age issue went all the way to the president of the university, who interviewed me over the phone. She allowed my application to proceed, but on a trial basis. Something tells me the minimum age will be specified on the application for next year’s program,” he added with a laugh.

“I guess I’ll have to take you under my wing and guide you,” I quipped, but given his outgoing nature and confidence, I wasn’t sure it wouldn’t be the other way around.