Part 18 — On the Brink
Tuesday, August 7, 1972
Mom really blindsided me at dinner by bringing up a subject no teenage boy wants to discuss with their parents, especially their mother. She began, “I know how uncomfortable it is for boys to talk about sex, unless they’re talking with other boys,” she continued, “but there are consequences that can affect you for the rest of your life.
“If a girl gets pregnant, she either has to travel somewhere where abortion is legal or raise the child while she herself is still in childhood. Many girls have been so afraid to talk to their parents that they waited until it was too late or they resorted to trying to end the pregnancy themselves, sometimes paying for it with their lives. Of course, raising a kid pretty much puts an end to a girl’s hopes and dreams. Not many boys are willing to go out with a girl who already has a child. Many boys are willing to walk away after knocking up a girl, but I know you. You’d help to raise the child and perhaps even wind up in a marriage with a girl who was nothing more than a one-night fling.”
“Mom, I know better than to get a girl pregnant,” I countered. “Not that I’ve ever had sex with a girl, but I know about condoms, and as embarrassing as it would be to buy them, I wouldn’t put myself in a situation where I might have sex with a girl without having one ready. You saw how I handled the situation with Cousin Zoe.” Only after I said it did I realize I’d never told Mom the whole story of what happened on New Year’s Eve.
“What about Cousin Zoe?” Mom asked in surprise.
Reluctantly, I answered, “When she got me drunk, that wasn’t all she did. She tried to seduce me. She got naked, and before I knew what was happening, she had completely undressed me, too. It was only because I was drunk that I let her get away with it, but I have no interest in her. I don’t even like her, and gee, she’s my cousin. I threatened to expose her for what she was, and then I made her help me get dressed and go get you to take me home.”
“The things we learn about our children after the fact,” Mom said to no one in particular. “I’ll buy you a box of condoms, so you can always carry one in your wallet like the other boys do.
“There is something else we need to talk about,” she continued, “and it’s probably going to be even more embarrassing than talking about getting a girl pregnant. It’s pretty hard to get a girl pregnant when you don’t even talk to girls. Girls are scary. They’re intimidating. They don’t respond the way boys do. It’s so much easier to talk to boys than to talk to girls.” I did not like the way this conversation was going at all.
“I know that teenage boys are obsessed with sex,” she continued. “I know that a lot of boys do things with other boys. They explore their sexuality with each other and learn about how to feel good and make others feel good. Boys often experiment, and that experimentation can reach a point where they share a level of intimacy similar to what boys and girls usually experience. Sometimes a boy decides that what they enjoy with other boys is so good that they don’t need to bother with getting to know girls.
“That’s how boys become homosexuals,” Mom exclaimed. Good Lord! “When sex with other boys feels so good, why bother with all of the emotional trauma of going out with girls? Once a boy succumbs to homosexuality, they become convinced that it’s normal.”
I needed to nip this line of talk in the bud before it went any further, so I interrupted her. “Mom, I know homosexuality isn’t normal. I have every intention of dating girls, of falling in love and of getting married and having children of my own someday. I’m just shy, okay? Right now, I’m focused on my studies and on getting admitted to a good school. I do intend to start dating, but not until I’m in college.”
“There’s an expression,” Mom replied. “It says that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. I couldn’t help but notice how you and Paul looked at each other; the way you hugged each other before you parted. Tell me that the two of you didn’t have sex with each other.” My face was on fire. I could only imagine how red it must have been. There was no way to deny it now. “Did the two of you fuck each other?” she asked. I’d never heard her use that word before or talk in such blunt terms.
“No, Mom, Paul and I did not fuck each other,” I replied. “I’m not queer, and I have no intention of ever being queer. Anal sex is just plain gross and it crosses a line I’d never cross.”
“Giving each other blow jobs is still pretty queer, Jeff. Can you tell me you didn’t do that?” When I didn’t answer, she continued, “Sexual exploration is perfectly normal, particularly in young boys like Paul. Thirteen year olds do those things, more often than not, but you’re sixteen. You’re still at an age when you’re vulnerable, but at a point where you risk having learned behaviors become permanent.”
“I’m not gay,” I reiterated.
“And I want to keep it that way,” Mom emphasized. “I’ll have more to say about that later.” What in the world did she mean by that?
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Wednesday, August 8, 1972
The conversation Mom had with me at dinner last night was so bizarre. The worst thing was that she made it clear she wasn’t finished. I didn’t have time to talk about it, though, as I had a lot to do before we left on vacation. First up was my allergy shot. I’d been getting allergy shots for so long now that my car could practically drive itself to the Methodist Hospital Professional Building, where my allergist had his office.
Once that was over with, I went to Robert’s Camera, where a nice guy who was only a little older than me showed me some flash units that would fit my camera. I didn’t need anything fancy, since my camera compensated for distance automatically. There was an open-box Vivitar 260 on sale for $20 that was cheaper than anything else, so I bought it.
He showed me some slide projectors and the ones I wanted — the Kodak Carousel projectors — were way too expensive. However there was a used GAF 1690 slide projector that was priced at $30 and came with six slide carousels too. They’d even replaced the bulb with a brand new one. That was a steal. $50 for the two items was a lot of money for me, and I’d have to pay it back out of my allowance, but it would be worth it. Fortunately, they took checks.
I had an appointment to have my car serviced. Had the downtown section of I-65 been finished, the trip to the mechanic would’ve been a breeze. It was so tantalizingly close to being done, but they were still painting the lane markings and erecting the overhead street signs. The whole thing was supposed to open later this year. Unfortunately, that meant I had to take city streets — 16th Street to Lafayette Road to 38th Street — and that meant driving in heavy traffic and waiting through scores of traffic lights.
When I finally arrived, there were two cars ahead of me, so I walked to the Burger Chef next door and grabbed a Super Shef Meal as an early lunch. I took my time eating it, reading the latest copy of Scientific American I’d brought with me. By the time I returned, my car was already up on the rack and the mechanic was inspecting the brakes.
“I have some bad news, bud,” were the first words out of the mechanic’s mouth when he spotted me. “The guy who hit you must have pushed your right front wheel into the curb, knocking your wheels out of alignment. You’re gonna need a pair of new tires up front for sure, but you might want to consider getting a full set. Last time, I rotated your front tires to the back, and those already had excessive wear from the wheels being out of alignment. If you’re gonna be taking a long trip, you should definitely replace the full set.”
Damn, another unexpected expense. Swallowing hard, I asked. “How much will that set me back?”
“These are the original tires, aren’t they?” he asked.
“I think so,” I replied. “After my dad died, we only drove it enough to keep the battery from running down. Now that I’ve got my license, it’ll be getting a lot of use. After taking a two-week vacation to Virginia, I’ll be driving it to and from school every day.”
“Your father opted for a better tire than the standard ones that came with this model. He was wise, but wide tires like these are more susceptible to wear from being out of alignment. Still, I’d recommend going with wider tires again. The added safety and performance is well worth the extra cost. I have an excellent tire in stock from General that’s even better than the Firestone tires you have now, and at a better price.
“Mounted, spin balanced and with new valve stems, I can get you out of here for $150 and change, including the wheel alignment.”
“Good God, what are they made of? Are they gold plated or something?” I asked.
“Tires are expensive, and these aren’t even radials. Those would cost you even more. At least they’d last longer, but your car wasn’t designed for radials and the handling would suffer. You can pretty much budget for a new set every couple of years with typical use.
“You should also replace the brake pads, both the disk brakes up front and the drums in back. You might get away with waiting, but if you wait too long, you could damage the rotors and drums, and that would set you back even more than the tires. Besides, you shouldn’t skimp when it comes to brakes.”
“No, I want to play it safe. Definitely replace the brake pads, and I’ll go with the tires you recommended. I don’t have the time to shop around, and my father trusted you, so I trust you.”
“When you get back from your trip, go ahead and shop around. Look up the ratings in Consumer Reports. If you find a better price on a comparable set of tires, I’ll refund the difference. However, if you do find a lower price, I guarantee it won’t be for as good a tire.”
“What about the condition of the bumper?” I asked.
“That’s the one bit of good news. I can find no evidence of damage. Still, that doesn’t mean there isn’t a small crack that could lead to early rust, but you won’t need to worry about that for years.”
I spent the rest of the day in the shop, getting out just in time to get caught in rush hour traffic. I ended up writing a check for over $240. I might have inherited the car from my dad, but as I was quickly coming to realize, it was far from free.
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By the time I got home, Mom was already home from work and was busy getting dinner ready. She’d put a pot roast with potatoes and veggies in the Crock Pot this morning and was in the process of boiling potatoes to make mashed potatoes to serve with the roast. Her mashed potatoes were the best.
“Hi, Mom,” I said as I walked into the kitchen and kissed her on the cheek. “I had another big bill at the mechanics today. I guess the accident knocked the wheels out of alignment. I had to buy a new set of tires and that cost me $150. I also went ahead and replaced the brake pads, added a quart of oil and replaced a fan belt, which brought the total to $240 with tax. The good news is that the bumper seems to be okay.”
“Remember, the guy who hit us gave us $250 in cash,” Mom responded. I’d forgotten about that! “The accident wasn’t your fault, and it happened while we were on a trip together. And you’re replacing the brake pads a bit early because of the upcoming trip. I’ll reimburse you the $240 you spent today, plus I’ll give you the extra $10 toward future expenses. After all, you negotiated for it. I’d have probably settled for his original offer of $50!
“By the way, Tom’s paying for the gas on the trip, and we’ll split the cost of the meals while I pay for the hotels. You’ll be off the hook for the trip except for the cost of your film and the developing.”
“Thanks, Mom, that’s great,” I replied.
“You’ll need to thank Tom,” she corrected me.
“You know…” I started to say, but she interrupted me.
“Hold that thought for a minute. I need to mash the potatoes,” she explained. She started up her mixer and gradually reduced a bowl of boiled potatoes to a pasty consistency, adding milk to make them softer and creamier. Then she added a whole stick of Mazola Margarine, to give them a buttery taste. Mom cared about us and used corn oil margarine because it was much healthier than real butter.
“Would you set the table and then carry the food to the table?” she asked.
“Of course,” I replied as I wiped down the table and set it for the two of us. By then, Mom had placed the roast on a platter, cut it into smaller pieces, and arrayed the potatoes and vegetables around it. She also poured what was left of the juice into a gravy boat. I carried the roast, mashed potatoes and gravy to the table, as asked.
We sat down and as we served ourselves, Mom asked, “You were starting to say something?”
“Yes, I was just about to point out how owning a car is starting to cost me real money,” I began. “It’s not like I can budget for the repairs either.”
“If you’re asking for an increase in your allowance, I think you need to remember that the choice to drive to school was yours — not mine.”
“But it saves me two hours of wasted time every day,” I pointed out.
“And I understand that,” Mom responded. “Really, I do. That doesn’t change the fact that you chose to spend your money to save time. As it is, I’m letting you tap into your pension for your car expenses, so it’s not really taking anything from your allowance. And don’t forget that I’m paying for your insurance, and that’s in addition to the higher rates I’m already facing to insure my car, just because I have a teenage male driver in the house.”
I’d assumed I’d hafta pay my own insurance, so that was a relief, but I wasn’t about to tell her that. “Yes, but…” I started to respond, but couldn’t think of anything else to say. “I see your point. There is one other thing, though. It’s a pain in the keister to carry my checkbook around with me every time I might need to pay for something expensive. I really need a credit card.”
“Yes, you do,” Mom replied. I was stunned. “Now that you have your own car and your license, you never know when you might face an emergency expense and not have your checkbook with you. Besides, not many businesses will take a personal check, especially from a teenager. Let’s go together to the bank first thing in the morning before I head in to work. Mrs. Forman can probably expedite things, and with luck, you’ll have your Master Charge in time for the trip.”
“By the way, I went to Robert’s Camera today while I was downtown. I’ll need a flash unit for my camera on our trip, and I need a slide projector to even see my slides from our Michigan trip as well as the one coming up.”
“How much?” Mom interrupted.
“Am I that obvious?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“$52.50, including tax,” I replied.
“That sounds awfully low compared to what you’ve discussed before.”
“I bought a used GAF slide projector instead of a Kodak Carousel, but it has autofocus and a remote control, and came with a new bulb and six slide reels, all for thirty dollars. It would have cost $150 for a new projector from Kodak — I can’t afford that. By buying a used off-brand projector, I can view my slides while saving for a better projector in the future.”
“That’s a very mature decision,” Mom responded. “I’m proud of you. I’ll take care of the fifty-plus dollars. Consider it an early Christmas present.”
“Wow! Thanks very much, Mom.” I hadn’t been expecting that.
As we ate, we talked about our upcoming trip. We’d be spending nearly the entire time staying at the Skyline Lodge in Shenandoah National Park. Mom had made the reservation nearly a year ago, ’cause the place was always booked up for the summer. Fortunately, we’d already planned our trip so it wouldn’t conflict with my going to summer school and thus didn’t interfere with the SSTP either.
The one change in plans related to Mr. Franklin’s interest in spelunking. I’d never heard the word before, but it related to exploring caves. There were several caves in the Shenandoah valley, including Luray Caverns, which was already on our list of things to see. Now, in addition, we’d be seeing the Skyline Caverns, Shenandoah Caverns, Grand Caverns, Endless Caverns and the Caverns at Natural Bridge. We’d visit Monticello, the University of Virginia, which was a consideration for my college plans, the New Market Battlefield and more. Of course, the bulk of our time would be spent driving along Skyline Drive and hiking the many trails of the Shenandoah National Park.
After we’d cleaned up from dinner and placed the dishes in the dishwasher, Mom once again blindsided me by bringing out a copy of the book, Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex* (*But Were Afraid to Ask). Clearly, it wasn’t a library book, so she’d obviously bought it or borrowed it from someone. When she opened it, it didn’t smell like a new book, nor did it make the sound of a new book being opened for the first time. She turned the pages with ease, making it obvious the book had been read before.
I couldn’t picture Mom asking anyone to borrow a book about sex, which meant she either bought it used or bought it some time ago… or she got it from Mr. Franklin. The thought that she might have discussed my sex life with my chemistry teacher absolutely terrified me. She opened the book to a page she had bookmarked and then proceeded to read to me the entire chapter on homosexuality. It was shockingly negative, and even though I had no intention of ever being queer, even I couldn’t ignore the obvious bias.
I’d experienced a sexual relationship with another boy, and I’d experienced true love. I’d interacted with two admitted homosexuals, Kyle, a good friend of mine, and the resident supervisor for our floor. Nothing about my experience in any way suggested the kind of sex-obsessed, shallow relationships portrayed in the book. If anything, Mom’s reading of a biased view of homosexuality was forcing me to challenge even my own preconceptions. The whole experience was bizarre.
When she finally finished and closed the book, I knew I should’ve probably kept my mouth shut, but I’d never been one to shy away from confronting false logic, so I proceeded into the fray. “Mom, I know you mean well, but that chapter is from another planet. Putting aside my own experience…” which I wasn’t about to discuss in any case, “…there was another boy in my group of friends who was deeply in the closet, but he told me in confidence that he was gay. His desires as a gay boy were the same as mine — to find another person to love and be loved by, and to spend his entire life with them. The so-called expert who wrote that book sure seemed to think that a gay relationship like that was impossible.”
“The author really is an expert, Jeff, and you’re not,” Mom countered. “He’s interviewed a lot more people than your one friend.”
“The floor supervisor was also gay,” I added, digging myself in deeper.
Throwing up her hands, Mom responded by saying, “I knew I shouldn’t have sent you to that place.”
“Good God, Mom,” I practically screamed, “Don’t you realize that next year I’m going to go away to college and there’s nothing you can do to change that? It’s part of me growing up. I’m going to come across people of different backgrounds from around the world, no matter where I go to school. I’m going to come into contact with gay people. It seems there are a lot of them, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna become gay, simply by association. I want to find and marry a girl and start a family of my own. Nothing is gonna change that. It’s far more likely I’ll marry a black girl than a gay guy,” I concluded.
That last statement touched off one of the worst arguments my mom and I had ever had before. I’d never thought of my mom as prejudiced, but she made it clear that she didn’t think it was right for me to marry a black woman. Not that she thought she had anything against black people or that she thought there was anything immoral about marrying outside of one’s race. She felt very strongly it was unfair to the children, who could never fit in with children of either race.
I’d grown up with black kids in my classes throughout elementary school. Although the kids in my accelerated classes were mostly white and a third of them were Jewish, about a quarter of the kids in all of my other classes were black. What was the big deal? Hell, one of our next-door neighbors was a mixed-race couple. They had a daughter in junior high, and she was having friends over to her house all the time — both black and white friends. It was obvious she was popular, so what was the problem? Exactly how wasn’t she fitting in?
The shouting match went on, long into the night. Finally, we both agreed there was nothing either of us could say that would change the other person’s mind. The one positive aspect was that Mom stopped talking about homosexuality.
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Tuesday, September 5, 1972
Our vacation had been incredible. We saw a lot of caves and did a ton of hiking to waterfalls and to unparalleled vistas of the Shenandoah Valley. I was sure glad Mr. Franklin advised me to pack warmer clothing though. I’d been naïve to think I could get away with going around in shorts without a shirt! It was rather cool in the caves and chilly up on Skyline Drive. It was downright cold in the evening, when we went out for dinner. However, it was really nice just to sit out on the balcony of our room at the end of the day and talk with Mr. Franklin about everything, from college life to the vastness of space.
Monticello was amazing, and the inventions Thomas Jefferson came up with were way ahead of their time. The University of Virginia was on a beautiful campus that far exceeded anything I saw in Iowa. It was a so-called ‘public ivy’, with a stellar reputation and a storied past. Unfortunately, it wasn’t even on the list of the top fifty universities for studies in astrophysics.
I’d always liked Mr. Franklin, but I really felt we bonded on our trip. It was obvious Mom loved him and he loved her, just as much. The most important thing was that he treated me like his own son, and an adult son at that. I really appreciated the way he let me make my own decisions and how much he trusted my judgment. By the end of the trip, I saw him as my dad and realized that I could easily come to love him as I had my own father.
Over the Labor Day weekend, we moved most of Mr. Franklin’s things to our house. Most of Tom’s things. He’d insisted I call him Tom, but I was having trouble getting used to that. There was still a lot of work to be done in consolidating furniture. Most of what we hadn’t already moved was still in his apartment, and he had to be out by September 15. We’d already brought over his nicer things and, in particular, his entertainment unit and stereo system.
Our TV was newer, so perhaps his could go in the master bedroom or maybe I’d take it with me along with our old stereo when I left for college. Some things could go in the attic to be stored for later use. The rest would have to be given to charity or thrown away.
Today, however, was the first day of what was to be my final year of high school. More importantly, it was time to get serious about my college applications. Now that I knew what I wanted to do with my life, I needed to home in on the top schools and, if necessary, make the time to go out and see them. The one thing that had changed since Mom and Mr. Franklin got engaged was that money wasn’t a problem anymore. Not that teachers earn much, but the addition of his income to Mom’s income from her job and her pension meant that I could actually afford to go to a top school.
The fact that I was planning to go to college after finishing my junior year of high school meant that I was already behind in the application process. Hell, I couldn’t even start the process last year, and I wasn’t eligible to take the AP exams as a sophomore, and those would play a key role in determining the classes I’d take in college. Effectively, I’d already been accepted into the University of Iowa, so I had that as a backup plan if I didn’t get into a better school. Professor Dixon told me that all of his students who’d risen to the level that I had in his program were automatically granted admission to Butler, so that was also a given.
Dr. Dixon was in his office on Saturday, hosting his usual physics lessons, in spite of it being a holiday weekend. I talked to him about my newfound interest in quantum cosmology. He helped me make a list of the best universities in the world offering undergraduate degrees that were particularly well suited to my interests. Not surprisingly, the top three were in California — Stanford, Cal Tech and UC Berkeley. I didn’t plan to visit any of those unless I was asked to interview, as I’d accept an offer from any of them in that order of preference, sight unseen.
The next three on the list were on the East Coast — MIT, Harvard and Princeton. Likewise, I wouldn’t visit any of them unless asked to interview, at which point I’d fly out for the day. The University of Michigan in Ann Arbor was another so-called public ivy and worth a look. I could drive up there in a day. Likewise for the University of Wisconsin in Madison and the University of Chicago. Columbia, Cornell and UCLA rounded out my list.
As might be expected, Oxford and Cambridge were also on the list of the top universities for astrophysics in the world. However, the thought of studying abroad was a bit much to consider for now. Maybe for graduate school or as a post-doc, but not now.
I’d taken my SATs back in March and gotten a score of 780 on the math portion, but only 690 on the verbal, which put me in the twentieth percentile for Stanford students. I’d retake the SAT in October in the hope of getting my combined score above 1540, which would put me in the top half of those accepted. My GPA was 3.9 and my class rank was in the top percentile, which was in the ballpark for the Ivy League. My resumé was well rounded, with participation in a number of extracurricular activities. I had commitments from Dr. Dixon, Dr. Ellis and now from James Van Allen to write support letters for me, which I hoped would give me a competitive edge over the other applicants.
The only thing left to do was to write a really killer essay on why I wanted to study quantum cosmology at each particular university, and for that I turned to Dr. Dixon and Tom Franklin for guidance. On their advice, I would read countless successful essays written by other applicants published in books I could find in the library. I would write rough draft after rough draft until the essays sounded compelling without being contrived.
I’d customize each letter to the particular institution to make it clear my essay wasn’t just another form letter. Only when I was satisfied would I type up each essay. I’d been spoiled by the availability of the computer in Iowa, which made it possible to write and edit my report using a text editor and a line printer. My essays were going to have to be typed individually, one at a time.
Of course there were other things to be done, like filling out application forms, requesting notarized copies of my school transcript, and meeting with my guidance counselor. Somehow I was gonna hafta convince her that the advice I was getting from Dr. Dixon, Dr. Ellis and Tom Franklin regarding which universities should be on my short list and what should be in my essay was better than that from any playbook she was used to using.
I was always excited by the first day of school, and at least this year, I wasn’t new to the school, so I knew my way around. Thankfully, I was done with physical education and wouldn’t have participate in a sport unless I wanted to. Never again would I have to humiliate myself in front of others.
As I went through the day, I got a feel for my classes and the teachers I’d be seeing every day. American Literature and US History were going to be the most challenging subjects, as they were not in my areas of strength. From what the English teacher said, we were gonna be tackling some controversial books in the class, which was fine with me. Parents always thought we were too young to handle anything dealing with sex or violence. We were all nearly adults and would soon be living independently in an adult world. American Lit was an accelerated class, and I should have no trouble passing the AP exam in May and getting college credit for it.
US History was going to be a fascinating course. It was an accelerated class and I expected I’d pass the AP exam and get college credit for it, too. More importantly, it was gonna be fun! We’d be spending much of our class time in the library, working individually and in small groups to study important events in depth. There was a paperback book he asked us to buy called The American Political Tradition, by Richard Hofstadter. It was available for purchase in the school bookstore. We were also gonna discuss the PBS TV series, Alastair Cook’s America, every week after it aired. Obviously, we were expected to watch it.
There was one thing the teacher said toward the end of the class that was troubling, though. He said, “The Watergate break-in is only the tip of the iceberg. Mark my words, this scandal is going to dominate the front pages of every newspaper in America and around the world. I have no doubt that Richard Nixon will be reelected in spite of the allegations. We may never know if he had anything to do with the break-in itself. It’s possible he authorized it without even realizing exactly what was involved.
“However, I smell a cover-up. I can smell it from a mile away. There is no way the president could not be involved in something of that magnitude. It’s always the cover-up that gets politicians in trouble. Whether or not the cover-up is effective in shielding the president has yet to be seen. Regardless, there will be calls for his impeachment. I’d say there’s a better than fifty-fifty chance he’ll actually be impeached. Strap yourselves in. It’s going to be a wild ride, and you, my students, will have a front-row seat to history in the making.”
Biology was my third accelerated class, and hopefully one for which I’d get advanced placement. It would be my first course in wet science. I was much more interested in math and the physical sciences, where everything was predictable and outcomes were seldom unexpected. Wet sciences like biology were messy, with outcomes that were never certain. I expected this would be the last wet science course I’d ever take.
My final accelerated class was trig, which would be somewhat repetitious for me. I was already using trigonometry and calculus in solving complex problems, but the trig I used was completely different from what was taught in high school. In Dr. Dixon’s program, I’d learned the trig functions as the basis of periodic waves. I had the background to derive the trig identities, but no need to use them. This year, I’d fill in a gap in my math education by learning how the trig functions could be used to solve geometric problems. In other words, it wouldn’t be a total waste of time, but there’d be no reason to take the AP exam for it. I’d take the AP exam for calculus instead.
The rest of the day was rounded out by electives that satisfied the requirements for graduation. I was taking another year of Latin and an introductory economics course. I was taking a second-year electronics course, strictly for my enjoyment. Last year I’d built circuits using vacuum tubes and relays in a series of projects, ultimately designing and building a working AM radio. This year I’d do the same with transistors, ultimately building an AM/FM radio by year’s end.
My junior and final year of high school was off to a great start.
