Elementary school is a blur. In fact, most of my school days are just vague memories. Most, but not all.
I began 1st grade at Pearl Street Elementary. Pearl Street was a half mile walk from our house. I would walk to Gurley Hill (technically, Gurley Ave.) where I’d meet Kirk Kelly and maybe one or two others and we’d walk to school together. Gurley Hill was, well, a hill, at the top of which was the city’s water tower. Even though it was surrounded by a tall chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, it was nonetheless a target for juvenile vandalism. I believe there was a period where the initials scrawled around the water tank at the top were those of two of my brothers and two of their friends.
I had a huge crush on my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Moran. At the end of recess, we had to line up at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the first floor of the school. We dutifully lined up one day, Mrs. Moran standing at the top of the stairs. Walking up the stairs, gazing adoringly up at her, I suddenly tripped and stumbled up a few stairs. When I stood up, I came up under her dress. It must have been pretty traumatizing…I remember nothing after that.
I learned to play the violin at Pearl Street Elementary in the second or third grade under the tutelage of Gerald Doan, who always had cigarette breath. It was my introduction to the world of school music programs. A V8 home movie my dad filmed of me walking down the aisle and up on the stage while playing with my string-playing cohort, still exists.
Some elementary teachers are nice, some not so much. Mom usually packed sack lunches for us, but occasionally I would buy lunch at school—mostly on Fridays’ when they had fish sandwiches. We never had fish at home because dad could not stomach the smell, let alone the taste. Mrs. Jones was on lunchroom duty one day that I bought lunch. The lunch included sweet potatoes. I loathed sweet potatoes. Mrs. Jones came around and saw that I hadn’t eaten them. She stood there to make sure that I did. After I swallowed the first bite, I threw up in my mouth. I didn’t want to make a scene, so I kept my mouth closed and swallowed the sweet potatoes for a second time. Once she walked away, I spooned the remainder of the potatoes into my empty milk carton.
I was lucky the city was building new schools. I started 5th grade at the brand-new Indian Mound Elementary—now Harrison Elementary—a 10 or 15-minute walk from home. Again, a blur. Recess on the blacktopped playground. Dodgeball against an exterior wall. Playfields where I learned to play sports…unsuccessfully. Showers after gym class. Carl in the showers. First time seeing someone my age with pubes. First time feeling a weird excitement at that. Actually, not the first time feeling some sort of excitement over naked, or nearly naked, guys.
There’s a church not far from 260 S Vine Street. It used to be a home known as the King’s Mansion, with a lake at the back of the property that passed under a bridge to the other side of Greenwood Street. By the time I came along, the lake behind the church was a parking lot, but you could jump down a wall at the eastern edge of the lot and under the bridge to the other side which was now a wooded ravine. We neighborhood kids would have all sorts of adventures in that ravine. Others obviously did as well. We often found condom wrappers and other paraphernalia there. One day, exploring the ravine on my own, I came across what I guess would be considered a soft porn magazine. It was all photos of muscle men in various poses, wearing only loin clothes or other skimpy attire. My pre-pubescent self was fascinated by it. I didn’t really understand why, then. I took the magazine home and hid it in our garage.
While I always had friends in the neighborhood, I also got teased a lot. I was not effeminate but was a bit of a sissy. Three older brothers who were athletes. A father who coached peewee league baseball. I got none of those genes. Traditional sports just did not come to me. I was the kid in the outfield, baseball headed right to me. Arm out, glove up…thud, as it landed right beside me. I blame it on being lefthanded…even though I had a black, lefthanded glove.
I’ve always had a vivid imagination. I had trucks and an impressive collection of Matchbox cars—too bad I don’t have them still. I liked building corrals in the backyard out of sticks, loading my guinea pigs up in the big, red horse truck and moving them around from pen to pen. I would pretend I was a horse and run around the backyard whinnying. I became so good at whinnying. I would whinny at horses in a field and they would whinny back. I liked playing with dolls. My friends sometimes called me Hoffgirl. I suppose you could call that bullying, but we didn’t know that back then. They’d hurl that at me for some reason or other, then we’d go back to playing smear the queer.
Next, I went to another brand-new building, Eber Baker Middle School. The furthest away from home I’d ever had to travel to school. It was on Pennsylvania Avenue, the east side of town, near the Catholic High School. An easy bike ride away, though. I think it was there I joined the band, playing alto saxophone. I don’t remember learning to play the sax nor why I wanted to in the first place. My dad bought me the coolest old saxophone. It was a sort of tarnished silver, not the usual brass finish. I played the violin and sax all through the rest of my school years. My sophomore or junior year of high school, the orchestra was going to be short on cello players. The orchestra director, Mr. Lane, asked me to learn to play the cello and fill a spot in the orchestra until freshman players from the Freshman Building matriculated to the high school. So I did.
Freshman year. The old high school became the Freshman Building. Every freshman in the city of Marion, Ohio converged there. I was now in school with many friends from church who’d gone to elementary schools in other parts of the city. It was located across from the First Church of the Nazarene, on Church Street, naturally. Looking at old photos, it was a magnificent building. No memories whatsoever.
Except that…Pete. We had been friends at church all through our younger years. Our parents were best friends. My brothers were best friends with his brothers. Our families did stuff together. His mom worked cleaning medical offices. Somehow because of that, we got access to syringes. Pete and I would use those to blow up bugs we caught.
Once we were in school together, it was like we didn’t even know each other. I think I was a lot more indoctrinated into the church than most of the church friends my age. They became a lot more involved with school friends and school life than I did. I’ve regretted that in later years.
I was not involved much with school friends when I started high school. I had them, of course, but they were peripheral to my involvement in church. I came from a very fundamental, evangelical Christian upbringing. The Hoffman’s were an exemplary family in the church. Most of my young life was spent in the church. I was destined to become the black sheep.
I don’t think many at school really noticed me until I sang my first solo for extra credit in choir. Yes, believe it or not, extra credit for choir. Another believe it or not? I sang Ben…Michael Jackson’s Ben. About a rat. My school life changed after that, though. I’d also started running track and high jumping—sports I found I was good at. I was a good runner, fast. I was third top high jumper…out of three. Being a member of the athletic department and a now-noted member of the music department put me on the social map. I met a girl.
AND THEY CALLED IT, PUPPY LOVE
I’d dated, had girlfriends, mostly from church—Becky Stage, Merry Thornton, Brenda Pickens—but this was different. Laura Ludwig became my first real love. Not forgetting my wife, Diane Smith, of course. It was a match made in…god knows where. She came from a wealthy Marion family—founders of L & K, Ludwig and Kibbee, restaurants—in an upscale part of town. I came from…260 S Vine Street. We fell in love, regardless. That was sophomore or junior year. Her family accepted me, though her mother was not so sure.
Neither one of us remembers how we met and started dating—I felt bad for not remembering, but contacted her anyway to find out if she did. She didn’t either…whew. We were both in the school choirs and eventually Sweet 16 together. That’s probably at least how we met and became friends. First date? I got nothin. I only remember one date.
Our senior year, my parents would not allow me to go to the senior prom. I know, right?! Even though they allowed my sister to go to hers with her heathen boyfriend, Tom, they said no for me. It was a religious thing. I remember them making me kneel with them in prayer about it in our living room. Jeff Baker—friend from church and school who eventually came out, as well—ended up taking her. I don’t remember that. Maybe for obvious reasons. To try and compensate, I took Laura out for a nice dinner in Columbus. I think we went to some fancy steak house. And that’s all I remember of the one date I remember.
The Ludwig’s house had a lower family room with a pool table. We spent a lot of time down there “watching tv.” That’s where the petting started. Making out on the sofa, hands begin to wander, further and further as time went by. There are two things, I think, that kept us from going all the way. 1) being at her house most of the time was not conducive to that—fear of her parents or her brother, John, coming home. 2) my (irritating) religious values at the time.
And then there was the fact that even if we were making out and getting all hot and heavy after they’d all gone to bed, my dad would inevitably call. The phones—upstairs and down—would ring. Then Laura’s dad, Paul, would call down to us, “Daryl, your dad says it’s time for you to come home.” You can imagine what a boner killer that is. I think Paul enjoyed it.
At some point we decided we wanted to get engaged. I went to Carroll’s, the local jewelry store, to look at engagement rings. Big mistake. Big. The owner knew Laura’s parents. He called her dad. Suddenly Laura and I are in the small sitting room at their house in front of her mom and dad. Her dad said they’d received a call from the store. Her mother was dabbing at tears. So much for getting engaged. Instead of an engagement ring, I ended up getting Laura a promise ring crowned with a single pearl.
Not from Carroll’s.
A number of Marionites owned cabins on small islands on Georgian Bay, Canada. Laura’s family was one of them. I was invited to join them one summer. I don’t recall if this was before or after the engagement fiasco. I’m guessing before. It’s a long trip to Georgian Bay—348 miles, the last few of which are by boat to their little island. Somewhere along the road I asked, “How much longer to go?” There was a distinct intake of breath by Laura and John, then stunned silence in the car. Paul, driving, politely pointed out that one of the rules of a roadtrip is to never ask how much longer or further there is to go.
It was a great trip. Amazingly beautiful scenery. The bay is dotted with numerous little islands. Big rocks, really. The summer is spent boating between the islands to see friends, hanging out, BBQing, waterskiing. I learned to waterski there. I had my own little guest cottage on their island—to ensure Laura and I were separated, I’m sure. So, perhaps it was after the parental engagement chat. But, there was a boat. And there were nights. Out on the bay. Just the two of us. We’d certainly done our share of petting, but out there on the boat went to another level. We didn’t get naked, but undone enough that body parts were easily accessible. As aroused as I was and Laura doing her best, I just couldn’t cum. I knew what blueballs were. The next day I knew how they felt.
The summer of ’75.
Laura and three of her friends—Laurel Williams, Susan Courtright (her cousin), and Paula Weber—rented a motor home to travel across the country to California. Her grandfather, Bompie (John Courtright) whose other half was Mamie, hired me to clean and maintain the pool at one of the apartment complexes he owned and to mow the lawns at two other complexes he owned. That work was a great distraction for a lovesick, horny, 18 year old boy—not forgetting that I also had to clean the toilets. There were many songs that played on the radio while I was cleaning the pool that still bring that summer back to me when I hear them. Love Will Keep Us Together, My Eyes Adored You, One of these Nights, If You Leave Me Now, Cat’s in the Cradle, Lady, When Will I See You Again, Make It With You, The Air That I Breathe, Play That Funky Music. Somewhat of a theme there. Well, except for Play That Funky Music, maybe.
With the summer over, we were both headed off to college. She to the Fighting Illini, me to Mt. Vernon Nazarene College. We talked about what we were going to do. Would we stay together and keep it going long distance? Should we not? I think we agreed we still loved each other, but that we both needed to be able to explore and enjoy college. I’m not sure if we actually broke up, but I know we were free to date other people. And we did.
I went to visit her at school one time. It seems I may have stayed in her dorm room with her, but not sure that’s true. I know we talked. She said one thing I’ve never forgotten, “I’ve gone further a lot faster here than I did with you.” (She claims that wasn’t true and doesn’t recall saying that. My memoir.)
I don’t know how I responded then, but back home, I was heartbroken. Being the stupid drama queen I was, that winter, with a fire going in the fireplace, I burned all the cards and letters from, and photos of Laura. One of the regrets of my life.
Side bar…
While I was there, one of the theme parks was auditioning for singers on campus. I must have known about it in advance. Maybe that was why I was there in the first place. Whatever song I sang for the audition I knew it was a good audition, but it was obvious I chose the wrong song. Most others sang some showtune or something upbeat. Naturally, I chose a ballad. Getting passed over, I left the room but was stopped as I was headed to the stairs. I think it must have been one of the staff. She stopped me and apologized about not getting to move forward. She said I had a really, really good voice, it just wasn’t what they were looking for.
At least one good memory came out of that weekend.
I remember when Bompie died. I remember when Mamie died. I might have gone to one or both funerals, but at that point I don’t think so. They’d always been very nice to me. As time went on, Laura and I drifted further apart. A year later, I moved to California.
A few days ago, I came across a box in the garage. A box clearly labeled in black sharpie, Schuyler’s Old Letters. I have no memory of seeing it before—it’s been visible on a shelf in the garage, for six years! In it were 13 letters from Laura, 1987 through 1988. We did not just drift apart. We went back and forth, together and apart, trying to figure things out. I don’t think I’d started dealing with my sexuality yet, but maybe. Maybe that was part of my back and forth with her. Many, many, many, many years later, we reconnected in New Orleans.
SUNSHINE ON MY SHOULDERS
I’m not sure when my obsession with John Denver began, but by high school all my friends knew I owned every record album—back when there were only LPs—and songbook he ever put out. I loved his music and I loved his personality. I wasn’t the only one back then, for sure.
No, not obsessed. I always considered myself possessed. So much about him and his music filled me.
I started sending him Christmas cards every year, for which I received an autographed photo of the man. It was clear from the imprint that he’d merely signed a stack of photos, but I didn’t care. I had a signed photograph from John Denver. One year I handmade a Christmas card for him. I stitched an outline of the Rocky Mountains and a message I don’t recall on burlap then glued that onto an existing card. I don’t recall either what the message on the inside was, but it must have been good. When the annual signed photograph arrived, there was no imprint from the previously signed photo on it. I suppose it could have been the first photo on a new stack of hundreds, but I’ve always believed he, or whomever saw it, appreciated the thought that went onto that handmade card.
I went to see John, Mr. Denver, in concert a couple of times. Once in Columbus, OH at the Veterans Memorial Auditorium in ’73, and once in Dayton, OH—University of Dayton Arena, 1975.
I had high school friends at the Columbus concert who had seats down near the front. We found each other at intermission. They managed to squeeze me into their row with them for the second half of the show. Almost heaven.
I’d gone to the Dayton show by myself, on a mission. I was a dreamer. I’d written a note to John—Mr. Denver—revealing my love for singing and entertaining, asking for any advice he might give. After the show I hung around at the back of the theater until I made contact with someone on the staff. I asked them if they could please give my note to Mr. Denver. I was a dreamer. I was so naïve.
I was supposed to go a third time, to an outdoor concert on the lawn in northern Ohio at the Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, Blossom Music Center. My dad got the tickets for me. A day or two before the scheduled date, he was unable to find the tickets. He felt terrible. I felt disappointed. Sometime later, a week or two or a month maybe, he found the tickets, right where he’d put them…sandwiched between August 5th and 6th, 1974 on his at-a-glance desk calendar. He apparently didn’t at-a-glance every day.
I had dreams about John now and then. Nothing sexual or anything like that. The one I remember the most was that his wife, Annie, was pregnant. I found out not long after that that they were planning to adopt a baby. Another time I dreamed Annie had died. She hadn’t, of course, but they were getting a divorce. Psychic? Just possessed.
The day I decided I needed to get out of Ohio and pursue a singing career, I was in the living room on Vine Street with the pocket doors closed, listening to John Denver. I listened to every album of his I had at the time. He moved me. He was my inspiration to go out there and make people feel things. I might have also been concealing that fact that I’d had a few beers and was concealing the fact from my mom.
I lost track of John over the years. Sadly, I’d let go of all the albums and songbooks, too. But the day he died in an experimental airplane crash, the memories all came back to me. I owe my move to California and many subsequent adventures to John Denver.
NOT QUITE MARY K
There’s a reason Summer of ‘42 always strikes a chord with me, even if I just see or think about the title.
Junior year of high school was a…formative year for me. I joined the staff of the Harding Herald, the school newspaper, and took a journalism class, both helmed by Mrs. P. She took a particular, special interest in me. I was a naïve, Christian raised teenager. It was not obvious to me at first what her interests were, even though they should have been pretty clear. Over time, we spent more and more time together. Working on the newspaper, of course. Then, there were little touches while working together in the cramped Herold office. Looks and smiles. Surreptitious hand holding when we could get away with it. We always sat next to each other at dinner with the staff after having put the latest edition of the Harald to bed. Alone in the office one time, or maybe it was just her classroom, she said she “wondered what it would be like to kiss me.” I don’t know if that spooked me or not, or if it fueled my adolescent hormones. I wondered if anyone was noticing.
It’s a bit of a headtrip having an older women interested in you at that age. Even though I had other things going on in my head. Had it not been for my strict religious upbringing and involvement in the church, we might have ended up in a Mary Kay Letourneau kind of thing.
Even though it ended between us—and I’m not sure how—somehow, Mrs. P still named me Managing-editor for the next year’s Harding Herald, along with Larry Hiser, and apparently editors on The Orb, the literary book produced every year—though I don’t remember that.
That year, 1975, we brought on a new photographer, Frank Breithopaupt, a sophomore. He was cute. He had quite the head of curly hair. He had a hairy chest. I noticed he and she spending a lot of time together. I wonder if they ever kissed.
BACK TO SCHOOL
High school is a precarious time for couples. Competition. Jealousy. Insecurity. The ultimate couple of couples, Kim Berry and John Johnston, got pregnant. Talk about shockwaves. I think every couple in high school stepped back and took a deep breath. Kim and John went on to get married, however, have more kids and now grandkids…and chickens. They’re still going strong.
My senior year we were a host family for an exchange student from Costa Rica, Carlos Chacon. He was good looking, had an accent. He was popular at school—it was Marion, OH, accents were exotic and sexy. Maybe I was a little jealous of that. We never really connected, but became friendly enough. It all changed on a school overnight campout at Camp…whatever it was. I remember sitting on the porch with a number of friends. I sang If, by David Gates and Bread. That night we were all in sleeping bags in the lodge. Carlos was dating Sarah. I heard something and rolled over. They were in a sleeping bag together. There was definitely something going on. For some reason this triggered something in me. It affected me in a really negative way. I didn’t sleep much that night and couldn’t wait to get away the next day. I have never figured out what that was about. I didn’t maintain contact with Carlos, but mom and dad did. They went to Costa Rica to visit him and his family—by then, a wife and two kids—and they came to Marion to visit mom and dad.
Ben, that song, opened up many things for me. I became the first junior picked to sing the homecoming song. For the homecoming queen. At the homecoming game. That honor, previously, always went to a departing senior. Jealousy didn’t only happen with couples.
I was so proud, standing there in my plaid, corduroy, cuffed bell bottoms, yellow shirt with a huge brown bowtie, topped off with a brown corduroy jacket over a brown sweater. Unfortunately, a photo of that outfit exists. In fact, it’s preserved forever in the yearbook from 1974.
I became a member of Sweet 16, what would now be considered a show choir, though we weren’t all that showy, just a group of really good singers. We would have never made it on Glee. Definitely not Pitch Perfect. Our senior year the group was: Laura (my sweetheart), Claire Black, Sue Hachten, Linda Whistler, Chris Bowman (record holder for the most of pairs of shoes in her closet, even in high school), Cherri Blackford, Janice Brown, Sue Cover, Cathy Croll, Kim Edington, Kirk Kelly, Joel Imbody—lost to AIDS a few years after high school—Jeff Baker (a friend from church), Mike Ionno, Jim Fogle, myself, with Jeannie Morgan rounding out the group as pianist.
While I think the girls made their own dresses each year, the guys were given hand-me-down blue sport coats from departed members. Maybe I should say former members. Lord only knows how many iterations of the group those were handed down to. We wore those our junior year. Our senior year, we got brand new jackets! If we wanted, we were allowed to keep the old ones. For whatever reason, I did. I still have it.
As with many things involving the class of ‘75, Sweet 16 excelled at what we did. Not only were we showcased at school functions and events, we performed at a number of community events as well. Some of our parents thought we were so good, they ponied up the funds for us to make a recording. Ok, I think it was actually Laura’s dad who did that. “Those Were the Days,” back in the day, was naturally an LP. God only knows if any of those still exist, but someone had the foresight a number of years ago to digitized it. I think we all have a copy of it. I listen to it now and then, still able to sing most of the songs. Two songs stick out in my mind—neither of them with me as a soloist—the Long and Winding Road and What Kind of Fool Am I. Kirk Kelly does a wonderful lilting solo on Winding Road. At the end of What Kind of Fool, Claire lands this beautiful high note that soars over the rest of us. It’s chilling.
I auditioned for every school musical we ever presented. I was in Oliver, playing Mr. Bumble, who ran the orphanage. Not a singing role, but it was a start. I walked around stage with a stone in my shoe to remind me to limp. That production was put on at the local theater, The Palace Theater. The Palace was a grand old theater downtown. It was designed to feel like you’re sitting outdoors in an Italian garden. The ceiling contained lights that looked like tiny stars in the sky and clouds that moved across the sky. The Pajama Game was also staged there. I may or may not have been in that production. Merry Thornton and John Miller were.
Guys and Dolls. Merry Thorton, my girlfriend at the time, played Sister Sarah opposite…not me. A friend from church, John Miller, a senior, beat me out for Sky Masterson. Jealousy. Over not getting the role and John in the lead with my Merry. I got the role of Arvide Abernathy, Sarah’s grandfather. I was a junior in high school who needed to look like a grandfather. Thus, I spent more time than anyone else in makeup to accomplish this. I look at photos from the Quiver, the school’s yearbook, and I don’t think it quite did. But my role as Sarah’s grandfather, became a pivotal event in my life.
I didn’t get the lead, but Arvide sings a beautiful solo to Sara, More I Could Not Wish You. The song was a perfect fit for me. I came off stage one night after singing the song. Some of the girls were there in the wings, tears on their cheeks. I didn’t think anything about it until later and asked one of the stagehands. I was told that my singing that song had moved them to those tears.
Wow.
I expected that sort of response when I sang in church. Songs are supposed to arouse emotions there. I’d never had it happen in a secular setting before.
It was a powerful realization that I could move people with my voice.
Looking back through three years of Quivers I realize I was not very involved in school activities. Most of my friends were. They were in a variety of clubs and activities with multiple photos confirming this. I’m not sure exactly why, but I suspect it was because of my involvement in the church being of more importance. Or at least my parents making it so. Yet, I see photos of many of my church friends involved in so many school activities. How did I miss out on that?
I remember being invited to a party at Susan Courtright’s house. I don’t think Laura and I were dating yet, but maybe. Maybe it was just because they invited everyone in our class—though I can’t imagine that. At any rate, I have this image of me standing in the backyard, by myself, wearing an orange shirt. I don’t know if that’s an actual photograph or only in my mind, but I think it is. I just never really fit in.
Dating Laura helped somewhat. My friend, Doug—whom I sang with on the Impact Team—was visiting one weekend. Lauar’s parents were out of town. So naturally, there was a party at their house. He and I went. Doug didn’t drink at all. I may or may not have, but I do remember going around after, helping Laura clean up…and draining not quite empty beer cans. Doug saw all sides of me over the years. And is still my friend.
With social media, primarily Facebook, I am far more involved with and connected with high school friends now than I ever was then. There is always a large turnout for our high school reunions every five years. I’ve been to them all. Not much had changed for people by the first one in 1980. ’85 was the first I noticed changes. Some couples were divorced by then. Some of the guys were already getting paunchy. The biggest differences were in the women. Those who had always been pretty were even prettier. Several who had been, I guess, average looking in high school, blossomed and turned into beautiful women. At every reunion, the same cliques that existed in school pretty much maintained themselves. Until the 35th, I think. At that particular stage in our lives, it didn’t seem to matter much anymore. Everyone mingled with everyone. It was also the first reunion after Facebook had been around. Many of us became FB Friends then, and still are.
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