FROM GREEN AND WHITE TO GOLD
Tribute to the Whiting High School Class of 1958

Al Koch
September 2021

Remarks made at the 50-year Reunion – September 27, 2008

Tonight, we mark the milestone that, at Commencement, seemed so far away—our 50-year anniversary of graduation. In the past half century, we have gone from GREEN and WHITE to GOLD! Along the way we have processed life and life has processed us. We have been tempered, ground, sharpened, and honed. Occasionally, we have been dulled and needed touch up, refurbishing and repair. Although at times we have had to sail against the wind, we have nevertheless stayed on course focused on our journey.

Through good times and not-so-good-times, in happiness and sorrow, laughter and tears, triumphs and defeats we have kept true to ourselves and wear our scrapes and blemishes like badges of honor. We have paid our dues and we have earned this time to celebrate. Like fine wine we are aged to perfection. We are creased and folded, marbled and mellowed—in short, we’ve endured. Tonight, we are here to hit the pause button and re-wind the tape. It is now time to open the vault of our memory and enjoy some long-ago moments.

Over nineteen thousand days have passed since that September morning in nineteen fifty-four when we came together as Whiting High School’s newest freshman class. A number of those who began that venture with us that day are not here tonight. Twenty-three have passed. Their life song ended much too early. Others have been unable to make this journey due to health issues; and a select number decided to forego this opportunity for personal reasons. Regardless of rationale or circumstance, know that they are with us in spirit.

Freshman year: 1954-55

Parochial and public-school students arrived at our alma mater as “old eighth graders” determined to make our mark within the halls and classrooms. Assignment: begin high school as “old” children and, four years later, leave as “young” adults. Those freshman days were good days, a time when the wind was green, a time of beginning. Days filled with potato chips and Pepsi’s; of a first girl with perfumed hair. Those were the days of warm autumn rains, a time of expectation and apprehension; of eagerness and enthusiasm, of hopes and dreams; and the indescribable feeling of just being part of it all.

Being a freshman was work; going through registration, getting schedules so we would be in class with our friends; orientation, having lockers assigned, buying books, paper, pencils eraser, pens, folders, and notebooks. And always, there were the fees to pay: locker fee, class fee, gym fee, shop fee, band fee—some say money talks, all mine ever said to me was “goodbye.”

Nineteen hundred and fifty-four was a year for Levi’s and loafers, bobby socks and long skirts, a year for football supremacy and Chili Bowl victory. Friday night dances and basketball tickets at thirty-five cents. There were club initiations and algebraic equations, assemblies, pep rallies, picnics, and get-together . Christmas parties where some of us sang songs in Spanish but sounded Polish, a time for nicknames and fads, career plans and Cokes; days to build friendship; hold hands at the game, or the show or on the way home from wherever, seasons to go skating or swimming, play ball or just loaf—a time to share and a time to belong. Freshman can be an attitude or an age; for us these were the early days, a time to be young.

We went to classes to learn about geography and history. Struggled with Civics and murdered English; took Spanish or Latin and ever since, have never been the same. We had difficulty remembering the use of an adverb and our minds failed us when we were asked to list the Bill of Rights. Mr. Taylor used to cringe when someone would speak in the wrong tense. And many a piece of chalk was dropped in frustration when the X’s and Y’s, did not equal the Z’s. We had our problems, no doubt about it. But what was amazing about us freshmen were that we could sing from memory every rock and roll hit on the Top 40 without one mistake; but struggled to distinguish a noun from a pronoun.

We closed out our first year with a picnic at the park where yearbooks were signed, and we tried to see how many autographs we could get—especially a long note from a favorite classmate. After 180 days we survived the scourge of being an underclassman. We were on our way up. Building in confidence, eager to on with the summer at hand, we departed our school with our heads held high, our REFLECTOR jammed under our little armpits, and our nostrils filled with the scents of Pine-Sol and soaps, for the war on maintenance had already begun.

The sound of the dismissal bell was still in the air when we headed down Oliver Street; crossed 119th and stopped at Hot Dog Louie’s for a quick snack; then on to Walgreen’s for more autographs. Ten signatures later, another pit stop at Dave’s drugstore for a malt or one of his giant root beer floats and a bag of Mrs. Klein’s potato chips, who’s slogan “Untouched by human hands;” became the battle cry of adolescents battling bad breath, body odor, and foot fungus. When it was time to head home there was a final pause to say, “See ya around,” and then summer—1955.

Sophomore year: 1955-56

 Before it began it was over, summer had faded into fall. beach towels, bathing suits and suntan oils were put away for another season. In their place came haircuts, daily showers, clean clothes, brushed teeth—and school. Tragically, a few weeks before the start of our sophomore year, a devastating explosion and fire at the Standard Oil Refinery jeopardized the survival of the City of Whiting, made Stieglitz Park inhabitable, and tested residents’ physical, emotional, physical, and spiritual mettle. Even so, during this trauma and its aftermath, we strengthened our character and refocused on the upcoming school year.

 By now we were a full-fledged member of the teenage generation with all the privileges appertaining thereto. Autumn, 1955, sophomores in high school; life was sweet. These were the days when boys turned into football players after practicing in the late August sun under the watchful eyes of a coach who they said had no mercy. These were the same kids as last year; but in many tangible subtle and not-so-subtle ways were different. A year older with our beginning behind, we seemed more self-assured, more confident of the course to follow. Our year began with registration, schedules, lockers, friendships; conversations about the summer past and the year ahead; and then, one hundred and eighty days of homerooms and classes.

Fifty-five found us listening and dancing to the sound of the Penguin’s Earth Angel, and Bill Haley’s Comets’ Rock Around the Clock. Rock Around the Clock would become the teenage anthem featured in the soundtrack of the movie: Blackboard Jungle.  This new generation of teens would become an economic force adopting fads, foods, music, and clothing as their statements of youth. As sophomores we replaced given names with nicknames. Nicknames like Yags and Mrz, Spanky and Buck, Beaky, Juicy, Giz, Scottie and Riggsy. Catchy names like Kujie and Krev, Dutch and Dee Jaye. There were All-American names like Willie and Peanuts, Cookie and Charley. The kids that came together as freshmen the year before were now a unit, a team, a class.

Those were the days of open-necked sport shirts and crew cuts; ponytails and crinoline petticoats, crewneck sweaters and poodle skirts; penny loafers and bobby socks. Fashions that sported blazers, Jantzen sweaters, blue suede shoes, duck-tail haircuts, and accessorized with bracelets, watches, and class rings: a time to be young and think April thoughts. Who of us tonight remember the titanic struggle between ignorance and knowledge? Why was it so difficult to draw a circle in geometry class with just the chalk and string? How many times did we have to bisect and trisect that anemic-looking frog in biology? Listening to the challenge offered by Mr. Stoffer: “Bet you a dollar to a donut?”

To ward off classroom tedium, certain students played practical jokes in biology class.: a spider on a girl’s leg, a garter snake placed harmlessly on a girl’s shoulder, a mouse in a desk drawer, or the secret potion in chemistry that ate the sink’s plumbing. Remember the fire extinguisher that “accidently” discharged in the hall? When the culprits were caught—and they were almost always immediately apprehended—would plead coincidence! Alas, it was to no avail. Many young lads became acquainted more intimately with our beloved class sponsor as his seasoned walnut paddle of iniquity reverberated with the resounding crescendo of a buttock’s caress—the culprit always received the standard allotment of penance: two swats!

Things perplexed up continually. Why did our locker open every time except when we were late for class? Why did we always get caught talking and not the “talkee?” The least they could have done was penalize the other guy for reckless listening!  Sages tell us that life is a series of hills and valleys. In nineteen fifty-five, I resided in a valley void of intelligence: dumb as a shovel. Philosophers say we can easily forgive a child for being afraid of the dark; but what about those who are afraid of the light? I have never been afraid of the light. I simply cannot find the switch! One day you turn around and its autumn, the next day you turn around and it is spring. Nineteen-fifty-five was a year of this cloth; all too soon our second year was ending and there was so much more to do.

Junior year: 1956-57

If there is a turning point in adolescence, a stage between shaving without a blade and shaving with a blade; a time when bobby socks are replaced by nylons, it is the junior year. This is a year of emerging independence, an escalation of self-assurance and confidence. The junior year is that delicious stage of youth when all nonsense and adolescence silliness slams headlong into the torrent of teenage hormones and intoxicates them to the degree that they stagger under their influence into a state of befuddled amusement. This third year of high school is the final plateau before reaching the summit of secondary education. This is “base camp one” of senior high school. With this lofty status come new privileges and rights granted to all who reach this level. If you survived two years of under classman ship, you have earned the spoils of victory.

Being a junior in high school is, at times, ridiculous. You are at, what they call, the “in-between age;” too old for the kiddies, but too young to run with the big boys and girls. Being a junior is discovering only one side of your face needs shaving. Being a junior is learning that “going steady” refers to relationships and not anything at all with prunes or laxatives. Being a junior is learning you have kissing sweet breath but rancid arm pits. Being a junior is often frustrating, but also a joy. It is like being a hitchhiker who sucks his thumb—you’re eager to get going, but find it difficult to make any progress. Such was the lot of the high school junior. This is how it was in the year of Our Lord, September 1956.

Like all years, each day brought adventure, unexpected events, laughter, and tears. It was also a year of new words: words like Sputnik and rocket, launch and re-entry, satellite, and outer space. And the word that caused considerable apprehension and anxiety: Russian.

Despite these events the members of the Class of 1958 continued to demonstrate their spirit and strength while focused on their scholastic, athletic, and social goals. While the outside world clamored about the launching of a foreign satellite, we continued to be faithful to our duties of holding up the radiator in the main hall. Scientists and engineers directed their collective energies to conquer gravity for the weightlessness of outer space. We were more down to earth taking comfort while anchored against, and leaning on, a variety of fixed objects: walls, water coolers, doorways, railings, lockers, fences, pool tables, trees—anything solid. Anytime you saw a junior boy they were desperately clinging and grasping lest they slide to the ground like jelly.

The school of nineteen fifty-six, fifty-seven ushered in white buck shoes and V-neck sweaters. It was a time when the girls all dressed in coordinated colors, turned their sweaters around, and talked in Pig Latin. It was the age of duck-tail haircuts and greasy heads, knock-knock jokes and slang expressions Entering our lexicon were now classic phrases like: “See you later, alligator,” and June Rowe’s favorite, “Easy greasy, you gotta long way to slide.” There was the term “Daddy-O,” and “There’s a fungus among us.” Hank Plawecki’s favorite was “Some-ma-na-gun.” Steve Linko combined strategies of skill and psychology by singing the Purple People Eater for three consecutive hours while playing snooker at Nick’s.

The soundtracks of our sock hops featured Elvis Presley, Ricky Nelson, and Pat Boone. Television screens were filled with American Bandstand and The Mickey Mouse Club. It was an age where youth was king. The music belonged to us! Our heroes made hit records, and often overnight, were dethroned by a new sound, a new dance. The one-hit wonders and established stars fed the teenagers’ almost insatiable appetite for rock and roll. The hit songs of The Diamonds, Danny, and the Juniors, Dion & The Belmonts, Johnny Mathis, Duane Eddy and hundreds more filled jukebox speakers at Whiting’s favorite teen gathering place: The Oil Can. The sounds and the sound-makers became a vital part of our lives in the season of nineteen fifty-seven. Pool rooms, bowling alleys, pizza parlors, drugstores, street corners, and the Community Center: these were the hangouts, the places to be places where homework was forgotten, and assignments set aside. Those were the scenes, sights and sounds of a third term in high school labeled the junior year. Together, the class of 1958 made it a very good year.

Senior year: 1957-58

Senior year starts in early September, when the playboy of the seasons winks one last time at sun-tanned faces while falling leaves bid farewell to their branches after being painted by the flame of an early autumn sun. It is the beginning of the end; but also, is the end of the beginning. One thing each of us learns early is that life is a series of beginning and goodbyes; and no matter the number of our years, we never quite get used to it.

Our senior year was a year for formulas and facts—Bermuda shorts and car coats, knee-length socks, and chemise dresses—a time for a holiday basketball tournament, the sub-deb winter formal and fun. These were the youthful days for snap shots and soft drinks, street corner seminars, and jokes about Ida’s new location. For the Class of 1958, this was the year of years, a good year, and a last time year. During these final one hundred and eighty days of our high school career we had many memorable moments. Each of us in our own words; each of us in our own way could tell favorite stories and memories. Tonight, we have come together to celebrate and share a number of these remembrances. This was our time. An evening for white sport coats and corsages, formals, and the prom: hours for dancing and dining, and, later on, a drive in the night: clutching souvenirs from a nightclub, starry eyes, pink carnations, tired dreamy faces; and soft quiet kisses at four a.m.

We picnicked at the Dunes, played softball with the girls; took photographs, signed autographs, listened to phonograph tunes. There were moonlit walks and quiet talks, gentle voices in the night. A final assembly—Bum’s Day—where seniors entertained classmates at the last assembly of the year.  A few hours later, as seniors gathered at Whiting Park for their class picnic, we received word that one of our classmates, Rich Bonczyk, died suddenly from cardiac arrest. The next evening, during the senior twilight hayride, with heavy hearts, we remembered our classmate in song and prayerful words. The evening after the funeral, we gathered at our class sponsor’s house to share moments and memories.  Class Night and Commencement the first week of June, filled the final days of our year.

The crisp twilight of an Indian summer silently gave way to the fragile patter of windblown snowflakes. Icicles drying in the sun nourished the buds of a new season as winter melted into spring. Ninety days later, spring returned the favor and matured into summer. Then, in what seemed like a moment, it was no more.

The strains of Pomp and Circumstance have long since faded into time. The Class of 1958 graduates went their separate ways to make their mark in a world that is difficult, challenging, complex, and ever-changing. More than half a century has passed since that June evening; and tonight, we have come home to renew friendships and share memories about the magical, once-upon-a-time experiences at Whiting High School. And, like the fabled land of Camelot let us resolve from this night on, and each evening before flames of distant stars flicker darkness into dawn, to think back on all the tales we remember of classmates and teachers—of those whose voices have been stilled: of family and friends who touched our life along the way and helped bring us to this time and place. We celebrate, too, with heartfelt appreciation knowing our journey through life has gone from Green & White to Gold. May God always bless the Whiting High School Class of 1958.